


Nine Lessons and Carol

by Galadriel1010



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Disaster bi Mycroft Holmes, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Multi, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Parenthood, Polyamory, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Threesome - F/M/M, Young Greg Lestrade - Freeform, Young Mycroft Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27121369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: As a teenager, Mycroft met and fell in lust with Carol Evans and her boyfriend, Greg Lestrade. He never expected to see them again, but even he is wrong from time to time. This is the story of how a teenage crush became more, and ultimately became everything.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/Greg Lestrade's Wife, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade's Wife, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade/Greg Lestrade's Wife, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to my beta, El, and to the nonnies who made very encouraging noises at me and got me to actually write the thing. I am on a campaign to be a one-woman Mrs Lestrade fanclub and take you all with me.

Final period on a Monday was Geography with Dr Hargreaves - a bear of a man, who did not suffer fools gladly and by the sixth form expected every one of his questions to be answered instantly and with citations. Lower-school students avoided him in the corridors, and with good reason. Mycroft had had him every year he'd been at Westminster and respected him immensely. They had fallen into a habit early on of hanging behind, if they could, to discuss world news and local politics. He had therefore been disappointed to be told the previous week that Hargreaves would not be taking the lesson on that Monday, or for any of the Mondays for the rest of the month, and they would instead be led by a bloody trainee. It was an affront, a distraction from the serious work of education, that  _ they _ be expected to educate some snot-nosed student fresh out of university, probably one of the old boys who couldn't bear to leave the alma mater. Mycroft seethed, quietly, and prepared for a wasted hour and a half of tedium.

Every single frustration fled his mind when he entered the room and the trainee teacher turned to greet him with a smile. She was...

She was an English Rose among thorns. Possibly the most beautiful creature ever to brave the darkened halls. Her honey-gold hair was held up with a jewelled clip that allowed her gentle curls to tumble over her shoulders and frame a perfect face, with eyes the colour of a summer sky and high cheekbones scattered with freckles and touched a delicate pink. She wore a sensible skirt suit, with a hemline below the knee and low heels, and still the sight of her ankles was enough to make Mycroft feel like a fainting Victorian reaching for a couch and smelling salts.

All of that, thankfully, crossed his mind in the fraction of a second after he opened the door, and he was able to return her smile almost nonchalantly and sidle past her to his usual desk. Across from him McMillan gave him a sly glance and a waggle of his eyebrows that Mycroft ignored.

It was as well he had, since Hargreaves himself arrived at that moment, gave them all a look that suggested he could read their minds, and sighed heavily. "Still no sign of Tofton and Crowe? This is becoming a habit."

They arrived just then and gave their guest the same startled look that Mycroft surely had, although he hoped he'd concealed his leer better than they managed. She just smiled back nervously and they filed to their seats in the small room. Six teenage boys and one angel for an hour and a half. Thankfully Hargreaves did not appear to intend to leave them to their devices. He glared them all into silence and gave a quiet nod of reluctant satisfaction. "This is Miss Evans. She will be leading your Monday morning classes for the next four weeks. I expect you to be at least as diligent with her as you are with me. This is not a time to slack off." He gave her a glare, too, and she wasn't as used to him as his students were. "Miss Evans graduated from Cambridge last summer with a first-class honours degree in Geography, so she is more than capable of instructing you. You may also wish to approach her for advice on your applications and student life in Cambridge, although of course you will not be attending the same college."

"Quite. Well," she said, reaching for the pack of chalk on her desk. "Shall we begin? Turn to page two oh three, please, and we'll turn our attention to the Peak District."

Halfway through the lesson, whilst he was working with McMillan on a handful of maps she'd given them, McMillan kicked him in the ankle and gestured to the front of the room. He lifted his head, and all annoyance - and everything else - was melted away utterly by the sight of her hanging her jacket carefully off the back of her chair. She turned her back to them, oblivious, and reached up to begin sketching out a diagram on the board. Mycroft's mouth went dry when the movement pulled the deep pink satin back of her waistcoat tight across her shoulders, and her sleeve cuff slipped down just an inch.

It really wasn't fair. He forced himself to control his expression, grace McMillan with a frustrated roll of his eyes, and turn his attention back to their work, whilst hoping desperately that Hargreaves wasn't paying attention to the way the back of Mycroft's neck and ears had surely flushed the same colour as her waistcoat and jacket lining.

# # #

They retreated to the common room straight after final period, neither of them wanting to linger under Hargreaves' glare, and parted ways with the other four in the quad. He was sure they would be having similar conversations; surely half the school was by now. The girls of Westminster School were firmly off-limits until you could be absolutely certain that no one was going to end your career before it had begun for looking the wrong way at their favourite goddaughter or cousin. Miss Evans, however, was quite another matter. Mycroft knew every thought running through McMillan's thick skull long before he'd opened his mouth, and he felt his own mood darkening. They were barely through the door of the common room before McMillan tossed his jacket to one of the lower-school boys, not pausing to notice which one it was, and threw himself into a chair. "Go on then, Holmes, what do you make of her?"

"She's an intelligent and well-educated woman," Mycroft said airily. "Her understanding of the entanglements between geomorphology and urban development is quite remarkable and... fascinating."

McMillan chuckled. "That really is Mycroft Holmes for 'I wanted to have her on the desk right there', isn't it?"

Mycroft ignored him and drifted to the window. "As for what I make of her as a person... Her accent suggests that she was born in Cambridgeshire, although not in the city itself, but she was raised in London. She's returned here, possibly to indulge her love of fine dining and dancing, more likely for her fiancé. He's a Londoner born and bred."

"The ring isn't just for show, then?" McMillan sighed. "Poor chap will have to get used to disappointment."

"You think so?" Mycroft turned his attention back to McMillan and made a show of looking him over, even though they'd had the measure of each other since their first week at the school. He was the younger son of a minor member of the nobility, out of luck as far as his father's seat in the House went, unless something awful happened to his older brother. Destined for the Civil Service, diplomatic corps if he played his cards right. Not unattractive, and he knew Mycroft thought so, but sufficiently self-absorbed to drive away all but the most determined gold digger. University would be the making of him, or the destruction. Mycroft smiled, not unkindly, and shook his head. "What made you think it was for show?"

McMillan shrugged. "Hope, I suppose. She didn't touch it, though, after that first ten minutes. Nervous tic, you think?"

"Undoubtedly. So she's comfortable with it, and has been wearing it for long enough to develop the nervous habit of rubbing the stone. It's not an expensive ring, but treasured. Perhaps a teenage sweetheart - unlikely to be someone she met at university, going by the design." He looked back out of the window and was struck dumb for a moment before he could get his thoughts back on track. Miss Evans was hurrying across the yard outside towards the gate, and towards a figure waiting for her there. "The wedding is this summer. She's reached her target weight for the dress, and she's recently had a trial run of a new hairstyle for the big day, but she's gone back to wearing it loose. As to the fiancé, I'm afraid he's well out of your league, old boy."

"Whatever makes you say that?"

Mycroft leaned against the window casing. "He's waiting for her outside the gate. Came on foot. You'd never do that."

And in addition to being chivalrous, he was quite beautiful. The most beautiful person Mycroft had seen all year, despite the arrival in his life of Miss Evans herself. Dark hair and a bright smile, a strong jaw, broad shoulders clad in a leather jacket that hung open to show off the way his white T-shirt underneath clung to his muscled chest and trim waist. They pulled out of sight of the main doors before touching each other, but Mycroft was still granted a perfect view of the way he cupped Miss Evans' face in his hands and leaned in to kiss her like she was the whole world.

He counted himself blessed to have seen the two of them on the same day, even as acidic jealousy curled in the pit of his stomach at the sight of them down by the gate. McMillan joined him at the window before he could draw his attention away, and grunted disagreeably. "You have him, I'll have her. Deal?"

"You're a scourge upon humanity, McMillan," Mycroft told him idly. "We will merely content ourselves with watching them from a distance."

"Is that what they call it these days? Well, if you want a hand with 'watching them'," McMillan murmured in his ear, finally wary of being heard, "you know where I am." He turned away again, slouching back to his armchair and removing one of the younger boys from it with a clip of the ear. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Mycroft. You have to speculate to accumulate and all that rot."

"I'm speculating something."

McMillan grinned. "Well, get over here and speculate about this history essay with me. I wasn't listening to a word Braithwaite said all lesson."

Mycroft rolled his eyes but did as he was bid. McMillan never listened, and Mycroft always dug him out of it. So it had been for the five years of their friendship, and so he expected it would ever be.


	2. Chapter 2

Uncle Rudy noticed something was up, of course. It wasn't that Mycroft had ever dreaded returning to school, save for a difficult period early in his second year, but never before could he remember looking forward to it quite as much as he did. Rudy said nothing about it until after dinner on the Sunday evening, taken at his club as usual, when they retired to the Strangers' Room to drink and smoke, until it was time for Mycroft to return to the school and for Rudy to do whatever he did after that. He waited until he'd got his pipe lit and they both had a glass of whisky before he broached the subject, doing so by gesturing in Mycroft's direction with the stem of his pipe. 

"So, tell me about this girl," was all he said, and then he went back to puffing on his pipe like he hadn't said anything at all.

"She isn't just 'a girl'", Mycroft told him. Not because there were two people occupying his thoughts, although Rudy had likely already worked that out, but because he didn't want Rudy to get his hopes up. "She's a trainee teacher."

"Pretty?"

"Stunningly beautiful." He smiled. "And quite brilliant."

Rudy nodded thoughtfully. "Married?"

"Engaged. Wedding this summer by my reckoning." Mycroft took a sip of his whisky and enjoyed the burn, well aware of Rudy's eyes still on him. "In another life... but that isn't the one we are living."

"Always important to remember that," Rudy commented. "Knowing where you are is as important as knowing where you want to be. Even when it hurts."

Mycroft hummed his agreement, letting his head fall back against the back of the chair and his glass dangle, half-emptied, from his fingers. "I suppose it's not easy to see the right person cross your path at the wrong moment."

"Good that you recognise it, though. Both parts of it. You never know, your paths may yet cross again."

"Possible, but unlikely to be any more helpful. I have seen her beau, and he is..." He trailed off and tasted the words on his tongue before he let them out. "Quite well matched for her, shall we say?"

Rudy laughed. "Oh you poor thing. Life has dealt you a cruel hand this week. Drink that, and you can have another before we leave. Have you an assignment for her?"

He nodded. "Already handed in before the weekend. Fifteen hundred words on the importance of geology to the formation of an urban area. I chose Petra, in Jordan. The system for controlling the water supply was quite fascinating."

"Never been. We should go this summer, if your parents permit it. Perhaps Palmyra." He gestured for Mycroft to drink up and reached for the decanter again. "A reward to celebrate your results."

"That won't allow us much time," Mycroft pointed out. "If all goes to plan, I'll be going up within a couple of weeks of getting my results."

Rudy smiled at him, eyes glinting with fond humour. "I think I'm prepared to be a bit presumptive on this, dear boy. Say the word and I'll arrange it. Send you back to your parents red as a lobster, yes?"

"Then I'd be delighted." He held up his freshly filled glass in salute. "Iechyd da."

"Salud," Rudy returned. "Now, let's get you back to your young lady before the dessert trolley rolls back round again."

# # #

Final period rolled around at last, and for once Mycroft found himself slipping out of Mr Baxter's classroom as soon as the lesson ended. He didn't try lying to himself about his motivations. He was much too distracted to be of any use conversationally, and it must have been obvious to anyone with eyes. McMillan, certainly, recognised it. He acknowledged it with a smirk when Mycroft took the seat next to him and set his books out with a calmness he didn't feel. "Someone's eager," he commented. "Feel like being a different teacher's pet this week?"

Mycroft shot him a dark glare. "I'll refrain from pointing out that you were here first."

"I'm not denying anything." McMillan winked at him. "The offer still stands, of course."

He was saved from either answering or simply punching the insufferable twerp by the timely arrival of Miss Evans herself, accompanied by Hargreaves. She graced them all with another of her lovely smiles, and set a towering stack of books down on Hargreaves' desk. There were a couple of library books in there, Mycroft noted, including one about the Silk Road. She and Hargreaves were deep in conversation, though, and by the time they'd finished the other boys had all arrived and were ready to start the lesson. 

Mycroft tried his best to concentrate on what she was saying, and not on the way her very plain, very simple dress swung against her calves when she turned to write on the board, or the way it brought out the startling blue of her eyes when she talked with such passion and excitement about aquifers, of all things.

When she again set them to paired research, Mycroft did his best to ignore her and McMillan both and concentrate on their work. A task that became infinitely harder when she set his essay back on his desk, with a reassuring A at the top of the page and below it a cheerfully pale yellow Post-it note. McMillan had a similar one, but his distinctly did not say "I enjoyed this. Let's discuss it."

Mycroft stared at her handwriting. Fountain pen, bottled ink rather than cartridge. A gift. She'd worked hard at perfecting her handwriting, and developed a pretty looping cursive. He doubted he would have described it as pretty if it had come from anyone else.

At the end of the lesson he sent McMillan off back to the common room with a glare, aided by an even sterner one from Hargreaves, and stayed back himself. It occurred to him that he was nervous, in an awkward, gangly teenage way that he had, up to that moment, thought he'd bypassed completely. Alas, it was not to be, and when he found himself the sole focus of that angelic smile and cornflower blue gaze, his ears betrayed his blush. 

"You wanted to speak to me, Miss Evans?" he asked, thanking every deity he could think of, just in case, for the fact that his voice didn't quaver.

She was kind enough not to mention anything, just sat down on the edge of the desk and crossed her legs over, revealing another inch or two of calf and the curve of her knee. Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on hers - on her intense, earnest and above all happy expression. "Yes, I wanted to discuss your essay, if you have time? I don't know as much as I'd like about the region, less still about anything pre-Imperial I'm afraid. I took a note of your citations, but I wondered if you have any primers you could recommend I look at?"

"I... yes, of course." He glanced over at the books on her pile and tried to wrest a single coherent thought from his brain. "Actually, I have a couple of books in my room. I could lend them to you. There's a particularly good one about the significance of the camel to the economic and cultural development of the region."

Camels, his brain wailed, as his mouth rushed to say anything at all. His brain quickly shut up, though, when her face lit up in a somehow even brighter smile. "Really? That would be lovely. I could get it off you next week, and return it the week after if that's alright?"

"I'll put it in your pigeonhole," he said quickly. "It's a bit out of date, but the Nabateans aren't going anywhere fast."

No one should have laughed at that joke, but she did. It did something very strange to Mycroft's insides. "Well then, thank you. I look forwards to it."

Behind her, Hargreaves cleared his throat and pulled out his pocket watch to look at it. "I'd better be getting on," he said gruffly. "If you want to discuss it, though, Miss Evans is sharing my office. Come by some time, Holmes."

"Thank you, sir." He finished packing his bag and looked up to see Miss Evans gathering together her stack of books. "Are you alright carrying all that, Miss? I could help take it out to your car, if you like?"

"Oh!" She looked over at Hargreaves for approval, and beamed when he nodded. "Thank you, that would be wonderful. My fiancé is meeting me outside the gate, but..."

Hargreaves tutted. "Holmes is a sensible boy. He'll find his way back that far. Don't worry, he's allowed out. Unlike the little plebs in the first year."

Mycroft fought down the sudden spike of desperation and the urge to kick himself as the thought of meeting her Adonis sent his ears scarlet again. He managed, just about, to help her gather together her books and divide the pile more or less equally between them at her insistence, and then followed her through the school and out into the yard. She kept up a cheerful chatter along the way about Tofton's essay on his home city of York, and only stopped when they got out into the bright spring sunshine and her eyes fell on the young man waiting by the gate. "Oh good," she breathed, clearly so hopelessly in love with him that Mycroft wanted to weep. "He's here already."

Mycroft followed her gaze and forced himself to maintain his steady pace at her side rather than melt into a puddle of teenage hormones. Seeing him from a distant window was nothing compared to up close, approaching him across the courtyard and seeing his face break into a warm smile at the sight of the woman he loved, and then - dear god - the slow flicker of his gaze over Mycroft. He returned the look with what he hoped looked like polite curiosity rather than desperate lust. The universe was being truly cruel to him. 

He felt a prickle over the back of his neck and remembered the window, and his own vigil from the previous week surely recreated this week, and stammered out a warning to Miss Evans before they reached her fiancé. "I feel I must warn you, the gate is quite clearly visible from several of the common rooms. You have garnered... attention."

She smiled up at him gratefully, which did little to calm his nerves, and didn't look back. "Thank you for the warning. I didn't realise."

They came within conversational range at last, and the young man pushed himself up from where he was leaning on the wall. "Hey sweetheart. How was work?"

"Lovely, thank you. We can be seen from the window," she hissed at him, leaning in to kiss his cheek and giving Mycroft a teasing smile. "Down boy."

"I'm stood down," he promised her. His eyes flickered over to Mycroft again. "Are you one of Carol's colleagues, then?"

Carol laughed and shook her head. "My pupil. Mr Holmes is in the upper sixth. He wrote that essay about Petra that I was telling you about."

"Ah, right." A complicated series of emotions, most of them amused, passed over his face as he stuck his hand out for Mycroft to shake. "Greg, Greg Lestrade."

"Mycroft," he offered. "Mr Holmes is my uncle."

"All Creatures Great And Small?" Carol guessed. "Or just a common occurrence?"

He chuckled. "A little from column A, and a little from column B."

Greg finally seemed to spot the stack of books Mycroft was holding, and realisation dawned on his face. "Are those yours, love? Here, I'll take them off you, mate. Thanks for helping her with them. Honestly, if I let her have her way we could build a house out of her book collection."

"You do let me have my way," she told him, laughing.

Mycroft's heart did a happy little skip at the sight of the pair of them laughing together with him, and he stuffed it down fiercely. "I'm much the same," he said. "But that reminds me, I'll dig out that Bulliet for you and leave it in your pigeonhole, before I forget."

"Thank you, that's so lovely of you." Carol glanced up at the school again, and smiled at whatever she saw. "I had probably better let you get back, before someone thinks I've... oh, I don't know. What do public schoolboys get up to outside class hours these days?"

He chuckled. "Honestly? Mostly homework. Gone are the days that we were a scourge on polite society." Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he inclined his head to them both politely and began to back away. "I'll see you next Monday, if not sooner, Miss Evans."

"I look forward to it, Not-Mr-Holmes." She waved him off, and by the time he looked back they'd got her books safely into the car and were driving away, with her chattering happily once more.

He knew he'd get an earful of it from McMillan when he returned to the common room, but the unbearable giddiness was worth every second of ribbing he might endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact time: In upper middle-class English, you "go to" most universities, but "go up to" Oxford and Cambridge. You also go up to London, and might just refer to it as "town", so you might say you are going up to town for the season when you mean you're going on a bender in London.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for warning on this chapter

"Holmes, a word."

Mycroft looked up from his work to see Hargreaves bearing down on him. It was enough to make anyone quail in their boots, but he maintained an expression of polite interest and flipped his book closed, then followed Hargreaves out of the library and down the draughty corridors to his office. It was cluttered, shelves stacked high with books and walls plastered with maps from all over the world, all eras and all levels of complexity. There was even a map of Middle Earth, as the closest thing Hargreaves ever got to a joke. One of the desks, which had been stacked with Miss Evans' work, was now glaringly empty.

Hargreaves took a seat behind his desk and didn't invite Mycroft to sit. He glanced at the empty seat and sighed. "You've heard that Miss Evans has left the school, I take it?"

"Left?" he asked, shock driving the word from him before he could control it. In hindsight, it was the correct answer anyway. Hargreaves gave him a rather more assessing look, and settled back in his chair with a sigh as Mycroft stuttered, "But... I thought she was due to be here for another week yet? Is she... quite well?"

"I see." He considered something, then indicated for Mycroft to sit down with an imperious gesture. "I should have known you weren't involved, Holmes. It's a bad business." Hargreaves rested his hands on his stomach and looked up at the ceiling. "Miss Evans has left by mutual agreement after being found in a... compromising situation."

Mycroft didn't allow his hands to curl into fists, but his chin lifted involuntarily. "With a student? An upper sixth boy, perhaps?"

"So I have been informed." His gaze on Mycroft was just too level and steady for it to be honest. It matched the icy cool Mycroft was having to layer over his own kindling rage, but if Hargreaves saw through his calm he gave no indication, just leaned back with a weary sigh. "I'll admit, I was concerned. She is an attractive woman, as I know you've noticed."

He felt the back of his neck flush again, embarrassment warring with so many flavours of anger. "As has every boy in the school, as far as I can tell. Most of us have the sense to admire from afar, though. Dare I make a guess at the identity of her..." He cut himself off at Hargreaves' raised eyebrow, but gathered his courage and pressed on after only a momentary pause. "...harasser."

Hargreaves inclined his head in acknowledgement and, Mycroft thought, some approval. That doused his ire, a little, some of it. "I'm glad one of you has a sensible head on your shoulders." His daughter was a few years older than Mycroft, and had attended in the sixth form. Of course she had been quite off-limits for even the most idiotic boys, but rumours didn't respect boundaries. Hargreaves was thinking about her rather than Miss Evans, fingers resting on his desk in front of the only photo of his family that he kept in his office, whilst his eyes drifted into an empty corner. "Keep your nose clean, Holmes. Not long to go now. You're not thinking of Cambridge, are you?"

"Oxford, Sir. PPE, for my sins."

"Pre-emptive, I assume." He sighed again and levered himself out of his chair. "She thought highly of you, Holmes. You really should consider Geography. I can put in a word with one or two of the colleges if you wish to change."

Mycroft got to his feet as well, finding himself surprisingly touched by the genuine compliment. "Perhaps once I have time to study for pleasure. And after all, PPE is Geography rebranded for the curriculum vitae."

"Isn't everything?" Hargreaves asked. He flicked his fingers towards the door. "I'll let you get back to your work. I'm sure you have something tedious to hand in before you go gadding about tomorrow."

Mycroft took his leave, but found himself too tightly wound to return to the library. Instead he pushed outside into the college garden, where the warmth of early summer had finally arrived and the towering oak trees provided welcome shade. It should have given him a moment alone with his thoughts, but of course it was not to be. The last person he needed to see was under one of the trees with a group of friends, and before Mycroft could slip away unnoticed McMillan was on his feet and striding towards him. "Holmes," he called out. "Were you looking for someone?"

The grin on his face... There were nerves there; he knew exactly what he'd done and how Mycroft wanted to react, but he also knew exactly what would happen if Mycroft did punch the smugness off his face, and it only served to make him smugger. His eyes flickered down to Mycroft's hands, and his mouth pulled down slightly in disappointment when he saw them hanging loose and controlled. "What on earth is the matter?" he asked, faux-casual.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Should something be wrong? I got the impression you were avoiding me, actually. Do you know something I don't?"

"Well, clearly not any more," McMillan said ruefully. "You heard about Evans."

Mycroft stared at the other boy for some time, long enough to unnerve him, then turned on his heel and walked away, knowing McMillan would follow him, even though his friends were calling out in surprise behind them. "You're an idiot," he sneered. "An absolute cretin."

"You think everyone is an idiot," McMillan pointed out.

"Not any more, they're all streets above you." They had got almost all the way through the archway, out of sight of anyone in the gardens, when Mycroft grabbed him and shoved him into a doorway, pinning him in place with two fingers on his chest and a glare that should have levelled buildings. "What the hell did you do?"

McMillan had the nerve to roll his eyes. "She was waiting for that boyfriend of hers yesterday evening. He was late, so I went to make polite conversation. Same as you, if I recall correctly."

"I didn't lay a finger on her."

"More fool you," McMillan said with that grin again, and Mycroft weighed up the chances of getting himself expelled for the various acts of violence he was considering. "Oh come on, don't pretend you didn't want to."

Mycroft pressed his fingers in slightly harder, then dropped his hand completely and stepped away. "You realise that by Monday, everyone in the school will know what happened and who was involved? Oh, it might not be the truth, the story will inevitably grow in the telling." He straightened his cuffs and turned away. "And you'll deserve it."

"Is that a threat, Holmes?"

He scoffed. "Merely providing my usual service as your externalised thought processes. If only I had got to you before you decided to act without my guidance. I can only apologise for overestimating your intelligence."

McMillan grinned up at him, boyish and stupid. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "Not in the slightest."

"Well. At least I know you'll keep my secret," McMillan said after a pause. "After all, there's things we know about each other..."

Mycroft gritted his teeth. "I look forward to the day when the world cares more about men sexually harassing women than it does about men being attracted to men. But until then, you are quite right."

"Thought so." McMillan slipped out past him and headed back towards the gardens. "I'll see you at dinner. Enjoy the library."

He refused to watch McMillan walk away, and instead turned back to the school, to try and bury himself in work, as if that would stop his mind racing.

# # #

He couldn't get out of school fast enough on Saturday morning, wordlessly dodging the gaggles at the gates and taking an indirect route up through Petty France and across St James's Park to reach the Diogenes. Even that route got him there faster than usual at the blistering pace he set, and he forced himself to stop for a moment in Waterloo Gardens to calm his twitching fingers. Only once he'd smoothed away all but the most insistent indications of his disquiet did he climb the few steps and ring the bell for admittance.

The stewards knew him well, as they had for many years, and greeted him with their usual polite disinterest. They didn't permit themselves more than the slightest hint of surprise when, rather than heading straight for the Strangers' Room or his uncle's office, he requested a glass of Scotch and took himself off to an armchair in a quiet corner of the main lounge to wait. The alcohol was doing little to settle him and he had no interest in the daily papers, so he was grateful when Rudy appeared, clearly summoned by a concerned steward, and took the empty seat next to him. The silence became more settled immediately, contemplative, and when Mycroft finished his drink he set the glass aside with a steadier hand and gestured to the door. With a slight nod, Rudy got to his feet again and Mycroft followed him out onto the street, where Rudy's car was already waiting for them. Once Mycroft had put his bag in the boot, however, the valet handed him the keys, and he looked up to see Rudy already settled in the passenger seat.

He slid behind the wheel and glanced across. "To Faverham?"

"To wherever you like, dear boy. You look like you need it." Rudy tipped his head back in his seat, his trust in Mycroft absolute even in the Jag, and said nothing more until they were out of the tangle of streets in central London and cruising along the A4, breezing out past Hammersmith on the Great West Road. "Where did you decide, then?"

"I still haven't," Mycroft admitted. "I thought perhaps Henley or Windsor, maybe the Chilterns. It's a nice day for a drive and a late lunch."

Rudy hummed. "I leave myself in your capable hands. Do wake me if you need a map reader, or when you're ready to get it off your chest."

"You're a frustratingly reasonable man when you want to be, Uncle." Mycroft relaxed back into his seat and let the miles roll away behind them. Soon they were crossing the M25 and then the M4, skirting Slough and High Wycombe and cruising into the AONB. Place names like Piddington, Middle Assendon and Nettlebed came and went, between hedgerows bursting with white May blossom and the bucolic scenes of village cricket and pretty country churches. By the time he pulled into the little car park on the top of Combe Hill and the Vale of Aylesbury was spread out below them as a green and gold carpet, he'd reached some point of equanimity, and a decision. People ignored them as they strolled up to an empty bench on the edge of the hill, and Mycroft leaned back with his face tipped into the sun.

"So," Rudy prompted gently. "Ready to tell me what's on your mind?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Can't you tell?"

"Do you want me to?"

He turned the thought over in his mind a few times, but eventually sat up, with some reluctance, and rested his elbows on his knees. "You remember there was a trainee teacher at the school?” he asked, although of course Rudy remembered. Probably knew everything about her already. He ignored the prickling awareness and explained, as Rudy always insisted, in his own words. “A Miss Carol Evans. Stunningly pretty. I... was not the only one who thought so, and there has been an incident. Her placement has been terminated."

"And the boy in question?"

"Unrepentant," Mycroft said, failing to keep the level tone he'd been striving for. "I do not believe that he recognises that he did anything wrong at all."

Rudy sighed. "And has he been reprimanded?"

"Of course not. What sort of example would that be setting?" He took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the distant horizon. "Apologies."

"None required at all, dear boy. None at all." Rudy stretched his arms along the back of the seat and clicked his tongue. "If you gave me his name, would it get back to him that you had done so?"

He laughed bitterly. "Half the school knows it was him already, the other half will do by Monday. It's hardly something he's hiding. Bragging about would be more accurate." He sighed. "Uncle... I'm not looking for revenge. But I must say something, so that no other poor woman... He was interrupted. I don't know how far he intended to go, or how far he will intend to go in future. I cannot in good conscience risk another woman being left alone with him if I could prevent it by speaking out."

Rudy was silent for a while. "I cannot prevent everything, Mycroft," he pointed out gently. "I am not omniscient."

"I know," Mycroft admitted. "But we can prevent it happening on our watch."

The silence settled over them again, until Rudy pointed up at a bird wheeling on a thermal above the plane. "See the Red Kite, Mycroft? All but wiped out a century ago, and this year they have laid their first eggs in the Chilterns. It takes only the smallest compassion to allow life to thrive once more. Aren't they magnificent?"

"Stunning," he agreed. "And yet how sad, that all they need to thrive is for us to leave them alone."

When he lowered his gaze, he found Rudy watching him with concern. His smile didn't appear to have as reassuring an effect he'd hoped, but Rudy just dropped a hand onto his shoulder and squeezed gently. "I'm sorry, dear boy. I know you liked her."

"It was never more than a teenage crush," Mycroft assured him, "and could never be more. I can only hope that we haven't spoiled teaching for her too much. Some school will be lucky to have her one day, and she has her fiancé. The less she has to do with our world, the better."

Rudy inclined his head, accepting the point. "You're still allowed to mourn what could never be. God knows, I've done enough of that. We do our best to leave the world kinder than we left it, Mycroft. That's all we can ask for."

"Then I shall keep knocking heads at Westminster," Mycroft promised. "And have another very firm word with McMillan," he added idly. "He's an idiot, but does listen to reason occasionally."

"Do that," Rudy agreed with a chuckle. He made no outward sign of having noted the name, of course, but Mycroft knew it would be in the files by midnight. "For now, lunch. I can see the Firecrest from here, and the steak is calling to me already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of sexual harassment and the culture that surrounds it in this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

Years went by and Mycroft had few occasions to think of those three weeks of his final summer at Westminster. Rudy took him, as promised, to Petra and then down to Egypt to see the Valley of the Kings and the pyramids, and then returned him to his parents, sunburned and relaxed, for the rest of the summer. He spent it devouring every book on the region that he could get his hands on until his A level results arrived and it was time to prepare to go up to Oxford. Four years later, Bachelor's and Master's degrees completed, he returned to Westminster, not to the draughty corridors of education but to the hushed chambers of government. 

McMillan, having studied at St Andrews, had apparently discovered a flair for journalism and was also back in the city. Somewhere. Their paths had not crossed and, if Mycroft had his way, they never would. And if his mind did wander back to sun-drenched conversations by the gate, honey-blonde curls and chocolate-dark eyes, no one was any the wiser, and thus no one could judge him.

It was, therefore, with some surprise that he rounded a corner, head ducked against driving snow, and came face to face with Greg Lestrade, whose hands came up to steady Mycroft automatically before recognition dawned on his face as well. "Bloody hell," he laughed, "Alright, mate? Long time no see."

Mycroft took a careful step back and looked the other man up and down. His bright yellow jacket marked him out as a member of the constabulary, as was the colleague next to him trying not to laugh at them. Despite that, and the late hour, vicious weather and general unpleasantness of the night, he was ginning brightly, and Mycroft found himself returning the smile more warmly than he'd expected. "Greg Lestrade, isn't it?" he said, as if there was any doubt. "It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Over six years since Carol finished her training," Greg confirmed with a laugh. "You're... Micron?"

"Mycroft," he corrected him with a smile, surprised that he was remembered even that much. "You're looking well. And is Carol..."

Greg shrugged. "Yeah, we're both good. Not been back in the UK long, actually, had a bit of an adventure. You out for the festivities?"

Mycroft looked down the road with ill-concealed distaste, towards where the embankment was still swarming with revellers who had yet to drift home after the fireworks and the midnight celebrations. "No, work, alas. It's still early on the West Coast of America, and the Americans do struggle with time zones at times."

"Ah, that's a bugger." Greg was nudged by his colleague and sighed. "I'd better let you get home, then, or out, if any of this is your scene. Good to see you, though. Look, I..." He fumbled in his pockets and scowled. "I've got..."

"Allow me." Mycroft's leather gloves were rather more dextrous than Greg's thick, waterproof thermal ones, and he pulled a business card from his breast pocket without really realising he was doing it. Now it was out, he could hardly take it back, though. "Perhaps we could catch up somewhere warm and dry sometime?"

Greg grinned again, or at least his persistent grin brightened further. "Brilliant, yeah. Carol will be pleased to hear from you. I think she's still got a book to give back to you, hasn't she?"

Mycroft allowed a fond glow to catch in his chest, despite his best efforts to smother it. "I believe so, actually. Camels?"

"Camels. She never did work out where to send that postcard." He tucked the card away in a zip pocket and allowed his colleague to nudge him on again. "Have a good night, Mycroft. And happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year to you, too. Give Carol my regards." He watched Greg proceed on with the familiar police officer's gait, before a particularly cruel gust of wind burrowed under his scarf and drove him scurrying for the nearest Tube station.

# # #

He woke the next morning already kicking himself for his foolishness. After a long day at his desk and the shock of seeing Lestrade again, he had handed over his card with some excitement, and returned home with thoughts of that summer warming him against the winter's chill. In the cold light of day, the realities of their brief acquaintance had reasserted themselves. 

Whilst he remembered his dizzying infatuation with them fondly, they, of course, had every reason to want to be rid of the whole placement, as Lestrade had surely realised by now, even if he hadn't in the moment of surprise. Mycroft's card would, at best, languish awkwardly on the fridge for a few weeks, then go in the bin where it belonged. And if they happened to bump into each other again - an unlikely event in a city the size of London, but not unheard of - Mycroft would be sure not to make the same mistake again.

He settled down with the morning papers and a cup of Darjeeling, determined to take his mind off the matter, but he'd barely sat down when the phone rang. It was just after ten, unusually late for Rudy to be calling for company but early for his mother to talk his ear off, so he cursed them both for good measure as he got out of his seat and padded across the sitting room. "Good morning, Mycroft Holmes speaking," he said, icy politeness lancing through his tone.

"Oh!" The voice on the other end of the line was so familiar, even now. He leaned against the wall with a thump and could do nothing but stare at the blank wall opposite. "Mycroft, hi. It's Carol Lestrade. Evans, as was. You met Greg last night, and I... Sorry, if it's a bit early, I can..."

"No, no, it's fine," he assured her. It occurred to him that he hadn't, in all his planning and recriminations, considered what he would do if she did actually call him. It had seemed much too far-fetched. "It's good to hear from you. Greg said you've not been back in London long."

"No, we haven't." Mycroft pulled a chair closer and sank into it whilst she got going. "Bit of a round the world adventure, actually. We saw Petra, so thank you for that. I loved it."

He smiled weakly. "I visited it that summer, with my uncle. Isn't it spectacular?"

"Amazing," she agreed breathlessly. "You were off to university, weren't you?"

"Yes, up to Oxford. PPE, for my sins." His finger twirled in the phone cable and he smiled down at his shoes. "Not a patch on Geography, of course."

Carol laughed. "Of course not."

"And you?" Mycroft asked. "You're still teaching?"

"I'm back to teaching." She paused and Mycroft heard her settling down. When she spoke again she was quieter. "I... wasn't sure I wanted to, after that summer. I graduated and everything, but... Well, not everyone I taught was as enthusiastic as you and I. And there was..." She cut herself off and he could hear the fake smile she'd plastered on, and the way it became more real as she spoke. "But there were some real gems among my students, and when we were travelling I ended up teaching English for a while, and they were all so lovely. So when we got back, I applied for a couple of teaching jobs and got one in Islington. The students all think I'm cool, at least."

He laughed with her. "What more could one want in life?"

"Look, Mycroft," she said after a pause. "I don't know if this is weird, I know I was sort of your teacher but not really, but if you're interested, would you like to come out for dinner with us some time? Catch up and stuff? I've still got that book to give back to you, and a couple of postcards I never sent."

"I'd love to," he said, before he could overthink it. "Where and when?"

She shifted again, and there was the sound of pages turning. "Let's see. Greg is... actually not working tomorrow, but I realise that's short notice. Otherwise..."

"Tomorrow is fine," Mycroft said quickly. "I know an excellent Nepalese restaurant in Hammersmith. The Light of Nepal on King Street, run by Gurkhas."

"Perfect!" She paused to write something down, and Mycroft pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. "We'll see you tomorrow, then. Six o'clock alright?"

"Fine by me. I look forward to it."

She laughed again. "Me too. See you there, Mycroft."

With that arranged they hung up, and Mycroft returned to his rapidly cooling tea, mind racing with all the reasons this was a terrible idea, and a sense of excitement that he was entirely unfamiliar with.

# # #

The Light of Nepal was a small place, long and narrow and with decor that didn't look like it had been updated since the 1980s, sandwiched between a trendy coffee shop and a hair salon that hadn't been trendy since before the decor was updated. Only a good reputation would draw anyone through the doorway, and thankfully the Light had a very, very good reputation. Mycroft paused under the inadequate canopy, grateful for his umbrella, and stubbed his cigarette on the wall-mounted ashtray before ducking inside. 

He had barely sorted them a table before the door opened again, and the Lestrades followed him in. Mycroft's nervous and slightly stunned reaction was completely smothered by Carol's bright, breezy and very enthusiastic one. She greeted him with a bright grin, eyes shining, and a warm - if slightly damp - hug, and over her shoulder Greg grinned at him and rolled his eyes. "Alright, mate." He offered his hand rather than a hug, but his handshake was warm and firm. "Good find, this place."

"It came highly recommended. I've been a couple of times since moving back to London, but there's never enough opportunities, and so many places to try out. Shall we?"

They were shown to a table at the back of the room, next to an incongruous fake palm tree, and were handed menus. Mycroft accepted his and ordered them a bottle of wine, then eyed the Lestrades over the table. "I can recommend everything, to be quite frank, but do let me know if there's anything that catches your eye."

"I'm happy to trust your judgement," Carol told him. "It all looks amazing, quite honestly."

"Then shall we delegate the decision making and get the set meal? My treat, by the way. I picked, I pay."

Greg shrugged. "I'm happy with that. We'll get the next one, yeah?"

The idea of 'the next one' was thrilling already. "Sounds like a perfect arrangement," he agreed. They gathered the menus back up, and when the wine was brought over he placed their order in Nepalese. When he turned back to the table, he found the pair of them looking at him with surprise. "I... didn't do that in English, did I?"

"No you didn't," Carol confirmed, resting her cheek on her hand and staring at him with delight. "Where on earth did you learn to speak Nepalese? Well, Nepal I'm guessing..."

He laughed. "Alas, I haven't had the opportunity yet. I have done some work with the Gurkhas, and learned enough to get by. And, of course, to order the set meal for three." It was an understatement, but a necessary one. People tended to think him even stranger once they'd seen his capacity for language learning, and yet Carol was still staring at him with some sort of wonder. "I have a knack, I suppose, for picking up vocabulary."

"Useful trick in politics, I'm guessing," Greg commented. He leaned back in his seat and stretched one arm along the back of Carol's. "Especially if they don't know you're doing it."

Mycroft affected offence. "I would never dream of such underhand dealings with our valued partners and allies. I may, on occasion, have been privy to certain conversations to which I would not otherwise, but that is merely an oversight on their behalf. A regrettable... useful oversight."

"Knew there was a reason we liked you," Greg laughed. "I bet you're vicious at poker."

He found himself smiling back. "Want to find out some time?"

"God, yeah." There was something in his eyes beyond mere amusement, but their starters arrived at precisely the wrong moment to distract them all. When they'd been left alone again, Greg gestured at him with a shard of poppadom. "So Carol said you visited Petra too. What did you make of it? Pretty astonishing, isn't it?"

"Beyond words." He picked up his wine again and thought back over the years. "When did you visit?"

"That winter, actually. We got married that summer and went to Morocco for our honeymoon and just..." Carol shrugged. "I couldn't really face going back to work, to be honest. I had a job lined up but it... Felt a bit much." She smiled again and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear again. "So we just didn't go back. Until, what, a dozen countries later?"

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, something like that. Maybe more? It was when we hit South Africa that we went 'fuck it' properly. And before we knew it, we were in Australia."

"That sounds like quite the story," Mycroft commented. He rested his chin on one hand and watched them across the table, wine glass dangling loosely from the fingers of the other hand. Carol's cheeks were flushed with laughter and the cold from outside, and Greg's whole face softened when he turned to look at her. It was so desperately beautiful it was unfair. He took a sip of his wine and reached for a samosa. "So, how on earth did you end up in South Africa?"

They talked for hours, dragging out the starters and main course and staying on for kulfi until they were almost the last still there and the staff were already clearing up around them. Mycroft caught the eye of one of the waiters and looked down at his watch. "Good heavens," he murmured, not needing to affect shock. "No wonder they want rid of us."

Carol checked hers and let out a choked-off laugh. "That's one way of putting it. Wow." She let him get the bill, and popped a mint imperial in her mouth. "This was a good find. We'll have to come again."

"Indeed." Mycroft's fingers slipped on his buttons as he pulled his coat on, and he kept his eyes down as if focused on them. "I... would love to do this again. If you would?"

Greg nodded. "Told you, we're picking up the bill next time. There's a great Chinese place on Brompton high street. It's in the basement, so you know it's going to be good."

"Next week?" he suggested. "Or..."

"Next week would be good." Carol picked a bag up off the floor and held it out to him. "Before I forget, I have to return this to you."

Mycroft accepted it from her, and opened it to find the book he'd lent her so many years before, and a stack of postcards, most of them of geographical features with detailed notes in tiny handwriting on the reverse. "Thank you. Did you enjoy it?"

"I absolutely loved it." She smiled up at him and rested a hand on his arm. "I'm so glad Greg bumped into you the other day. This has been lovely."

"I agree." He swallowed hard and dragged his gaze away to the window, where rain still hammered down on the street outside. "Now, before we make our goodbyes in the warm and dry, are we then going to head for the District Line together?"

Greg laughed. "Ravenscourt Park up to Victoria for us, then the Victoria line home. You?"

"All the way through to Monument for me. But we can at least continue the conversation as far as Victoria." They got outside and he and Greg put umbrellas up, almost synchronised. Greg, though, had the advantage of Carol burrowing close under his free arm, one of her hands tucked into his pocket on the other side for warmth. Mycroft tucked his head down against the wind, and tried not to blush when Carol bumped her shoulder against his.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we earn our E rating

Dinner became a frequent, if somewhat irregular, fixture of their lives. Weeks turned into months turned into a year, and they ate their way around the world via restaurants on narrow side streets and tucked in basements or above hair salons. It was a world away from his usual company, the backstabbing and conniving of Westminster or the prim and proper restraint of the Civil Service backrooms. The Lestrades laughed a lot, talked about everything from global trade politics and climate change to indie horror films and obscure London history, and never once gave any indication that they thought him strange or intimidating, even when he risked his hand by deducing the ongoing breakup of a couple on the other side of the restaurant from them. They actually got him into the terrible habit of showing off.

It was almost addictive, having their attention on him so completely. He learned how to tease and hint, to guide them to realisations or blindside them with revelations, enjoyed the slow satisfaction of Greg’s dawning comprehension or Carol’s quick delight. They started taking the window seats so he could point people out to them on the street: the vicar considering apostatism, the single father with two girlfriends on the go, the local councillor on the take. The first time Carol gasped with surprise, he knew he could never get enough of it. Her eyes, wide and alight, followed their target down the street, whilst Greg’s were a lazy warmth on Mycroft.

One thing led to another, and one Friday in early April, at the start of the Easter holidays, Mycroft knocked on the door of a nondescript apartment in Islington, where Greg was taking his turn to show off by cooking dinner. Carol opened the door after less than a minute, in jeans and a T-shirt and socked feet, and waved him in. "You found us, then? Come on in. Let me take your coat."

He handed it over with a bottle of whisky and bent to take his shoes off. "The collection of garden gnomes was a very useful waypoint, as you predicted."

"They're hideous, aren't they? Greg says I'm not allowed to steal them, but if you run off with them I'll be your alibi." She finished hanging his coat and looked down at the whisky. "Oh, this looks like it's going to be a lot of fun."

Mycroft chuckled. "I certainly hope so. I have to say, something smells excellent."

She grinned up at him. "Greg wasn't lying about being a good cook. I wasn't kidding about being good at washing up." The sound of singing drifted through from the kitchen and she tilted her head that way. "Shall we disrupt his karaoke session?"

The kitchen was small and strangely shaped, and rather cramped with three of them. Greg greeted him with a grin anyway, and leaned back on the counter with his hands braced against it. The action pulled his black T-shirt tight across his shoulders and chest. The look on his face suggested he knew it. "Alright, mate. You're just in time, should be ready to serve any minute."

"I was just saying to Carol that it smells wonderful." Mycroft smiled shyly. "She's a lucky woman."

"Yeah, well, she'd be luckier if I had time to cook properly more than once a week. It's been good to have the excuse, to be honest. We went down the market, did it properly and everything." He grabbed the oven glove and bent over to look in the oven. Mycroft couldn't look away to check if Carol was staring like he was. "Yep, that'll do," Greg said casually. "Babe, can you get the wine from the fridge?"

Carol nudged past Mycroft to grab the bottle and pointed out the door beyond him. "Dining room's across the hall. And it's not covered with my marking for once!"

"She tidied specially," Greg called out behind them.

"I did," she agreed with a grin. "It's the first time we've seen the actual table since February."

"Well. I am honoured."

Carol laughed. "You should be. Here." She poured a glass of wine and handed it to him. "Probably not up to Westminster's standard, but not a terrible plonk. He picked up food, I picked up wine. I can bore you to tears with terroir."

"I'd thoroughly enjoy that, I suspect," Mycroft admitted. He took a cautious sip and was able to look honestly pleasantly surprised. "German?"

"Hungarian, actually. Apparently they're the next big thing." She poured herself and Greg a glass each, then raised hers and touched it together with Mycroft's. "Cheers."

Greg joined them just then, carrying a bright orange oven dish of roasted vegetables very carefully. "Don't touch it, it's hot," he warned. "Ask me how I know."

Carol laughed. "Do you need me to fetch anything, love?"

"Nah, I've got it. If you start serving, though, we're about ready." He disappeared back to the kitchen, and by the time he returned with the fish Carol had got the vegetables distributed. "This is a recipe I picked up from an Italian bloke we met in the YHA in Sydney, I think? Best place to pick up new recipes, honestly."

"And new people," Carol added with a wicked grin. "Marco, his name was. Do you remember Sylvia in Wellington?"

Greg laughed. "God, she was a fruitcake, wasn't she? Lovely girl. Dragged us out of bed at two in the morning to watch the stars because they looked cool."

"It was worth it," Carol said idly. "I've never seen Mars so clearly. You don't see the stars like that in the UK. We went up into the mountains with her. You know they're filming the Lord of the Rings there next year? I can't imagine anywhere more right for Middle Earth, I really can't."

Mycroft couldn't look away from her. "I'd love to visit it one day."

"We'll take you with us when we go back," Greg offered, dark eyes glittering. "Lots still to see."

He swallowed hard, mouth dry. "I... would like that."

* * *

After dinner, dessert of a silky-smooth orange chocolate mousse, and the rest of the bottle of wine, Mycroft and Greg were booted out to the living room, where they settled down with glasses of Scotch and the sound of eighties pop drifting from the kitchen where Carol was washing up. Greg raised his glass in salute and grinned easily over at Mycroft. "This is a good whisky. You brought it?"

"My uncle is quite the expert. He has been training me from a surprisingly young age." Mycroft chuckled. "It's always useful to know where to get a good bottle of Scotch at short notice in the City."

Greg laughed. "Definitely a good job we got back in touch with you, then. I wouldn't know where to start."

"I'd be happy to show you," Mycroft heard himself say, and he looked down into his glass before he could let on how many things that was true about. "I'm glad we bumped into each other that night."

"Yeah. It was a good way to start the new year." Greg was watching him with an intensity that Mycroft could almost feel, and desperately wanted to. Greg's finger tapped gently at the glass in his hand. The music in the kitchen stopped mid-song. His eyes met Mycroft's again and he smiled. "Strange question maybe. Or maybe not. Have you ever had a threesome?"

Mycroft's mouth went dry, and he had to take a sip of the really truly excellent whisky before he could speak again. "No. Why do you ask?"

Greg tipped his head to the side. "Would you like to?"

"Is that a hypothetical question?" Mycroft asked, with surprising steadiness. "Or an invitation?"

"Depends how much you've had to drink," Greg told him. "And whether you want it to be an invitation."

Carol leaned in the doorway, her own glass pressed to her chest in one loosely-curled hand. "Doesn't have to be tonight. You can think about it."

He looked between them. "I've been thinking about it for over six years." Their warm smiles, Carol's delighted laugh and Greg's hum of amusement, curled through him like honey. "I would... dearly like it to be an invitation."

"Then it is." Carol slid onto the sofa next to him and rested a hand on his knee. "Talk to us, okay? If there's anything you want or don't..."

"You have done this before?" he guessed.

Greg chuckled. "Not with someone we were worried about looking in the eye the next morning. That's a new one on us."

"But this matters to us," Carol added. Her hand was still warm on Mycroft's leg and he couldn't look away from her summer-blue eyes. "So if it's a yes..."

"It is."

She grinned at him and her eyes flickered down to his lips. "Good," she breathed. "How do you feel about kissing?"

He laughed breathlessly. "Enthusiastic?"

Carol hummed and leaned in to press her lips against his. Despite everything, it still managed to surprise him. He felt Greg take the nearly empty tumbler from his hand, and could only spare a handful of braincells to be grateful to him, whilst he lifted his now-free hand to brush through the soft curls that framed Carol's face, tuck them behind her ear with a shaking hand and brush his fingertips down her cheek. Her mouth opened against his in a soft sigh and her hand slipped further up his thigh, finger tracing along the seam of his trousers. She was soft and warm, and when their tongues brushed for the first time he tasted the chocolate and wine from dinner. When she pulled back, it was only far enough to brush their noses together and smile at him. "Still okay?"

"More than okay," he assured her. He leaned in to press his lips to the corner of her mouth and feel her smile again. "Are you?"

She found his hand and tugged on it. "Come on, bedroom. Let's get comfy."

Their bedroom was the largest room in the apartment, and still mostly taken up with the bed. Delicate voile curtains hung across the French window offered privacy, but still allowed the room to be flooded with the golden light of evening. Through the windows he could see their balcony crowded with plants, and a folding table tucked behind one of the chairs. Information sleeted past him, until Carol's hand landed on his shoulder and her lips pressed to his back below where her thumb rubbed in gentle sweeps. "Need to stop you thinking, lovely. I can hear it from here."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, you're fine." She turned him gently to look at her and trailed her fingers down to the buttons on his waistcoat. "Now... I do love a man in a waistcoat. Going to love you more out of it, though."

Her fingers made quick work of the buttons, and then she planted her palms flat on his chest, pushing her hands up to his shoulders and over, then down, his arms, taking the waistcoat with them. When she got to his wrists her fingers found his cufflinks and she paused with a frown. "You're wearing cufflinks. Who wears cufflinks these days?"

"People who wear waistcoats," Mycroft pointed out. He tried to reach between them to get to his wrist. "Here, I can..."

"I've got it," she told him, deft fingers flipping the bar and removing the cufflinks at the same time. She took his waistcoat in the same gesture and stepped back to fold it carefully and place it, with the cufflinks on top, on the dressing table. "I'm a woman of many talents."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. "So I can see."

Carol laughed and planted her fingers in the middle of his chest to push him back towards the bed. "Go on, get comfy." Once he'd settled down on the edge of the bed she reached out blindly for Greg and tugged him towards her with her fingers tucked in his belt. They kissed lazily, but she batted his hands away when he reached for the bottom of her T-shirt. "Nope, not yet." She tugged at his and pushed him in front of her, so she could reveal his skin inch by inch to Mycroft's hungry gaze. "Pretty, isn't he?" she asked him, fingers skimming over Greg's stomach even as he blushed. "Go on, arms up."

Greg did as he was told, and she had to stand on tiptoes to get it off. He was still laughing at her a second later, when she evidently planted a hand in the small of his back and pushed, harder than she had with Mycroft, and Greg stumbled towards the bed. "She's bossy today," he told Mycroft. His eyes flickered down to Mycroft's lips and he smiled. "Hi. Okay there?"

"Very much so," he breathed. He was even more okay a moment later when Greg leaned in and their lips stroked together softly.

Greg's fingers brushed almost cautiously at his top button, and he pulled back to look at Mycroft nervously. "Okay if we take this off?" When Mycroft nodded wordlessly, Greg began working on the buttons carefully, revealing pale skin ever so slowly. He was focused on it, and it was a while before he glanced back up at Mycroft's face. When he did, he broke off for a moment to trace fingers along his jaw gently. "You look nervous. Want to pause?"

"No, no, I just..." Mycroft turned his head to kiss Greg's palm. "You're quite stunning, you know?"

He flushed again and his eyes fluttered to Mycroft's lips. "I was just thinking the same about you." He resumed his work on Mycroft's buttons and leaned in to kiss him again. Their tongues caressed gently, and when Greg traced his fingertips down Mycroft's chest he couldn't hold back a gentle groan. "God," Greg breathed against him. "You sound gorgeous too."

A warm hand on one knee distracted him, and he looked down to see Carol kneeling in front of them, still dressed. She bent to press a kiss to the inside of his knee and then did the same to Greg, eyes sparkling up at them. "I could watch you two all night," she told them, "but I have a few better ideas."

Greg hummed happily. "Does one of them involve our dicks and your mouth, by any chance?"

"Hmm, it might." She trailed her fingers up the inside of their thighs, and her eyes fixed on Mycroft, watching his expressions. "What do you think, gorgeous?"

"I am in your... incredibly capable hands," he told her, reaching out with a trembling hand to run a finger down her cheek. "Whatever you want of me, I am yours."

She laughed and bent to kiss his knee again. "That would take more than one night. I have a list."

"I wouldn't complain," Mycroft admitted.

The words hung between them for a moment, whilst her fingers drifted up their thighs. Then she knelt up to kiss them both again before settling back down. "Well, let's start with this," she suggested, grinning. "And see where we go from there."

Their cocks were already visible hard through the fabric, Greg in his jeans and Mycroft in trousers. Mycroft had left his jacket and tie in the office and not made it home before dinner, London being the transport disaster it was, and he was now regretting some of that decision. Carol didn't seem to, though, as she tugged at his belt with deft fingers and tugged at his hips until he lifted them so she could pull his trousers and underwear down in one go. When she turned her attention to Greg's jeans, his large, warm hand wrapped around Mycroft's cock, and he mouthed kisses along his shoulder. Mycroft groaned when Greg rubbed his thumb across the head, and enjoyed the rumble of laughter against his skin. "Yeah? Good to know," Greg murmured.

Carol reached up to run one hand down Mycroft's chest and the other down Greg's. She drifted fingertips through their chest hair and swiped her thumbs under their ribs. Greg was muscled and fit where Mycroft was, despite his best efforts and wishes, softer. Carol didn't demonstrate any preference, although she allowed her fingers to drift slightly to a sensitive patch on Greg's side that made him squirm and grab her wrist with a warning growl.

She was still grinning when her hands drifted lower and she took a firm hold of them both, and Greg pressed an open-mouthed groan against Mycroft's throat. He teased Mycroft's pulse with lips and teeth, wrapped his arm around his waist, murmured soft encouragement. Their trousers were still around their hips, constricting Carol's access, but that didn't seem to bother her. She leaned in to kiss Mycroft's stomach, and trailed down until she reached his cock where she began to tease gently, pressing kisses and licks along the length, eyes fixed on him to watch his reactions. When she took the head into her mouth and twirled her tongue around it, Mycroft let out a deep groan and slumped against Greg.

"I think he liked that one," Greg murmured against his temple. Carol just hummed agreement, which was also enough to turn his bones to jelly, and Greg reached down to tuck her hair behind her ear again. "You're so hot doing that, babe. I love how you love it."

She pulled back and ran her hand up and down Mycroft's length, spreading her saliva to make the glide sweet and smooth. "What can I say? I like an appreciative audience." She did the same move on both of them, a gentle glide up and then a firmer stroke back down, and Greg's hips bucked. Carol hummed again and bent to take Greg straight into her mouth, sucking him down and drawing a bitten-off curse from him.

Greg tipped Mycroft's head to pull him into a kiss, and they explored each other's mouths leisurely whilst Carol moved between them, alternating twisting pulls and the slow swipe of her thumb with licks and kisses and the heat of her mouth. It was as close to heaven as Mycroft had ever been. Eventually, though, Greg nudged Carol away gently, and dropped his forehead onto Mycroft's shoulder. "Easy, or this'll be over before it's begun," he muttered, voice already rough.

She drummed her fingers on their thighs, then pushed them both back and up the bed, helping them out of their trousers properly as they went and following them up, pulling her own jeans open and escaping them with a wriggle. Greg reached for her T-shirt again and pulled it off in one evidently practised move, but looked almost disappointed when it left her completely naked and in their laps. "Did you do the bra trick?"

"Mmm, whilst you were snogging Mycroft. Sorry babe." She cupped his cheek to pull him in for a kiss. "Want to watch for a bit?"

He settled back against the pillows with a laugh, and then all of Carol's attention was on Mycroft. It was dizzyingly gratifying. She scooted closer to him and knelt up to get the angle she wanted; she had to duck her head to kiss him and, when he floundered for a moment, she grabbed his hands and planted one on her waist and the other on her breast. He got the message quickly, groaned into her mouth, and took his time to explore her, fingers digging gently into soft and pliant curves and tracing over places that made her twitch.

He pulled his mouth away from hers and pressed a kiss against the hollow of her throat instead, which she welcomed with gentle fingers carding through his hair. Down further, he mouthed at her clavicle, trailed his tongue between her breasts, took one nipple between his lips and laved it with his tongue whilst he rubbed his thumb over the other to hear her gasp and feel her squirm. Her stomach muscles twitched against his lips, and she let out a gasp and a moan when his fingers slid between her legs and found her soft and hot and wet. She dug her fingers into his shoulders and twitched with the effort of keeping her hips still as he slid a finger inside her. Her eyes were dark and wide above him, and he smiled. "May I?"

"Whatever you want. How do you want me?"

Mycroft rolled her over, tucked her into Greg's arms, and crawled down the bed to settle between her legs, which she parted willingly. It was Greg's fingers that stroked through his hair, guiding him on gently as he explored and indulged himself. Carol whined and squirmed in his arms, desperate gasps and pleas and Mycroft's name bitten off when he crooked his fingers inside her. Greg kissed her throat and grinned at him. "All the way, baby? Or do you want to hold back?"

Carol managed a strangled sound that was somehow yes and no at the same time, and bucked her hips against Mycroft's mouth. She stared down at him, wide-eyed, and nodded. "Please." Her legs wrapped around his shoulders and she thrust her hips up until he pinned them down, and after that it wasn't long before her orgasm washed through her, head thrown back and desperate curses pressed against Greg's throat.

Mycroft sat up, and was only half-surprised when she pulled him towards her with shaking hands, wrapped her arms around him and kissed him deeply; he was still not surprised when Greg leaned in to join them. It was awkward and perfect for it, with Carol sandwiched between them all loose-limbed and sweat-damp. Mycroft's cock twitched, more than interested, against her thigh, and he groaned when Greg's hand dropped to squeeze it. "You going to go to sleep there, babe?" he asked her, lips pressed against her ear and eyes on Mycroft. "Or are you still with us?"

"Still here," she assured him. "Bit of a pillow princess for a while though."

"Makes a change from bossy as fuck." He nipped her neck and she growled at him. "How do you feel about me fucking you whilst you suck Mycroft?"

Her eyes snapped open, pupils dark, and she let out a soft moan but shook her head. "Other way," she insisted. "I hate the taste of condoms."

Greg shrugged. "Fair enough." He looked up at Mycroft. "Alright with that?"

"Oh Christ," he muttered, finally finding his voice again. "Yes?" He leaned in to kiss them both again and bucked his hips into Greg's hand, groaning when it pulled away. A second later there was a condom being pressed into his hand, and a second after that Carol took it from him and turned to glare at Greg over her shoulder. She opened it with her teeth, very carefully, and squirmed down the bed to suck at the head of his cock before she rolled the condom down over it.

"Where do you want me, then?" she asked, kneeling up and pushing her hair back out of her face again. "Hands and knees or lying down?"

Greg sat up against the head of the bed and wrapped a hand around his own cock. "Come up here. Hands and knees, then I can reach Mycroft to snog him."

She made a happy noise at the thought and crawled up the bed, stopping on the way to kiss Mycroft and run her hands through his hair again. Her breasts pressed against his chest when he wrapped his arms around her, and the list of things he wanted to do with them grew even further, along with his arousal. He took a moment to enjoy the view when she pulled away and bent to give attention to Greg's straining cock. "You really are extraordinarily beautiful creatures," he told them appreciatively.

Greg laughed. "I'm pretty sure there was at least a five syllable word in there. We're not doing our jobs."

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. He took the hint when Carol turned to look up at him and wiggled her hips, though, and shuffled around behind her. Whilst she returned to what she was doing, Mycroft leaned forwards to press himself against her back, kissed the satisfied smile on Greg's face, and raked his blunt nails down her back as he pulled back again. She moaned and Greg's face went slack with pleasure for a second. "Jesus fuck," he murmured. "You can do that again."

Mycroft chuckled, and his hands drifted down over the curve of Carol's arse, thumbs drifting between her cheeks and down further. She spread her legs obligingly. As he lined his prick up with her entrance, he rubbed his free hand over the small of her back, and kept it up as he pressed home, even as his mind whited out with pleasure at her tight heat. It took all his concentration to keep up the slow, gentle slide, rocking into her a little deeper each time until he was buried to the hilt and gasping. Greg's fingers tangled with his on the small of Carol's back, and between them she moaned and shuddered. They met in a fierce kiss, and found a rhythm. When Mycroft pushed in, he pulled her towards him and Greg pulled back, then when he pulled out he pushed her towards Greg and he pushed in. Carol's sighs and moans were a sweet torture, and Mycroft bent forwards to kiss the back of her neck again. "So beautiful," he told her.

She hummed again, and he felt her fingers brush against his cock when she reached down to rub her clit idly. When he thrust in harder she let out a deeper moan that went straight to Mycroft's cock and, by the look of it, straight through Greg's. His eyes were wild and he nodded sharply. "Yeah, that. That was amazing."

So Mycroft did it again. He gripped her hips in both hands and drove into her, over and over, whilst his pleasure spiralled higher and her fingers rubbed faster, nudging against him more and more frequently. Greg was the first to come, one hand tangling in her hair and the other in Mycroft's, crying out against his lips and thrusting up against hers. Once Carol had face-planted less than gracefully against his stomach again, the angle changed and Mycroft saw stars. He chased his own release and came with a cry, buried deep inside her again.

In the lethargic haze that followed, Carol tugged him up the bed to lie against the pillows, and insisted on squirming between them with an arm around his waist. Mycroft didn't object when Greg reached for his hand and guided it between her legs again. She was wetter than ever, and mouthed her desperate little noises against Mycroft's throat and chest until she was sobbing and clenching around his fingers again, and Greg pulled Mycroft's hand away and up to his face, to lick each finger clean in turn.

* * *

A cool breeze drifted in front the balcony, bringing with it the scent of tomato plants and the tang of rain and London streets. Mycroft accepted the cigarette from Greg again and tried not to drink in the sight of him, so casually, effortlessly, gloriously naked next to him. It was strangely intimate, even compared with the rest of the evening. They'd been left to their own devices after Carol scrambled over Mycroft to open the French windows and then ducked out of the room, pulling on Greg's discarded T-shirt as she went, and Greg had relaxed back into the pillows with his eyes closed. When Mycroft reached across him to the ashtray he just smiled. "Not freaking out yet?"

Mycroft paused, still poised above Greg, and frowned down at him. "Should I be?"

"Honestly? You don't strike me as someone who's freaked out in your life." His sleepy brown eyes opened and locked onto Mycroft's. "But you knew this was a possibility when we invited you over."

Mycroft tilted his head. "I... wasn't sure whether that was observation or desperate hope," he admitted. "But I had considered the possibility."

"Hmm." Greg shifted under him and reached to take the cigarette from him. "You have a list."

Mycroft watched, entranced, as his lips pursed around the cigarette, his cheeks hollowed and he tipped his head back to blow the smoke away from Mycroft's face. And then the moment was ruined completely by music blaring through the flat. Greg collapsed onto the other side of the bed, laughing, and Mycroft pushed himself up to his elbows. "What on earth is that?"

"That," Greg told him, "is Steps. And your three-song warning before Barbie Girl starts."

"Barbie Girl?"

"Once heard, it cannot be unheard." Greg stubbed the cigarette out and rubbed his hands over his face. "This is what I have to put up with. It's Steps, Peter Andre, Spice Girls and then Barbie Girl. Bloody awful." He stretched his arms out above his head again but made no move to do anything about the racket. Just looked up at Mycroft's horrified expression. "I bet you don't listen to anything composed this century, do you?"

Mycroft sniffed as haughtily as he could. "I'm rather fond of the work of Vaughan Williams and was lucky enough to meet Peter Pears as a boy."

"That Ben Britten's partner?" Greg checked. "That's pretty cool." He chuckled at the look of surprise that Mycroft had evidently failed to suppress. "I did music to A level, I'm not a complete pleb. Only got a C, admittedly, but I paid attention once or twice. Fanfare For The Common Man is alright."

"Copeland?"

"ELP," he laughed. "Karelia Suite, Pictures At An Exhibition..."

Mycroft sighed. "I'm getting the picture." The first song stopped, and he rolled his eyes towards the door. "Track two."

"We have two choices," Greg told him. "Either we dress really quickly and go to the pub, or you distract her while I change the tape."

"To some prog?" Mycroft guessed. He rolled over to look at the time and sighed. "Alas, I think I may have to pursue a third option."

Greg leaned over him to see, close but not touching. The warmth of his skin was a visceral reminder of the evening that did nothing to encourage Mycroft to leave, much as he knew he had to. "It is getting late," Greg agreed reluctantly. "You'll have to bring stuff for overnight next time."

That comment made it both easier and much, much harder to sit up and start hunting for his clothes. "And the time after that?" he asked, with a casual confidence he did not feel. Greg laughed warmly, and Mycroft turned to smile at him. "Or should I just leave things here next time?"

Greg grinned, bright and sharp, and it took all Mycroft's restraint not to abandon all thoughts of dressing ever again.

Then the last track started and Greg lurched from the bed, naked, to sprint for the tape player, and left Mycroft laughing so hard he had to sit back down again.

* * *

He'd not been up long the following morning when the phone began trilling loudly from the hall. The futile and slightly foolish hope that it would be Greg and Emma was dashed swiftly by his uncle's assistant, who had rung to inform him that the car would collect him in half an hour. Mycroft rested his forehead against the wall for the space of two deep breaths, then hurried back to his room to get changed into something presentable. Forty seven minutes later he was deposited on the doorstep of the Traveller's Club, and shown through to the dining room where Rudy was already waiting for him with the morning's paper and a pot of tea. "Ah, there you are," he said, affable as ever. "Have a seat. Have you eaten?"

"I haven't," Mycroft admitted as he took the offered seat and poured them each a cup. "I was just debating between scrambled or poached eggs when your man rang and saved me the bother."

"Good timing then." Rudy set the paper aside at last and smiled at him. "I didn't want to call upon you too early. After all, you had quite a late one last night, I understand."

Mycroft schooled his expression into one slightly less homicidal than he felt, at least for long enough for one of the white-gloved stewards to come and take Rudy's order for two breakfasts and a large pot of coffee. He took the paper from the side table where Rudy had set it and flicked through to the opinion pages. "Still watching me, uncle?"

"I was curious. I've hardly seen you this year, after all." He gestured across the table at the paper. "Are we going up to the Parks next weekend? It's Worcestershire. Or there's Lancashire at Fenner's, they're well tipped for the title this year. Worcestershire might be disappointing."

He shrugged. "I dare say either of them will frame themselves adequately against the universities. Loyalty says the Parks, but it has been a while since we went to Fenner's. Are you wanting to do the whole match? I'm owed a day for yesterday, I'm sure we could swing it even at short notice." Rudy was still watching him closely, and Mycroft couldn't help the way his eyes flickered away from his attention. He busied himself with folding the paper again, and raised his eyebrows in casual disinterest. "It's been a while since I visited the dreaming spires."

"And you won't be missed?" Rudy asked, also casually.

"Work will cope without me for a day or two," Mycroft assured him with an entirely insincere smile. "The Millennium project is well in hand, I have every confidence in their ability to keep breathing without direct supervision if I were to come up to Oxford with you on the Wednesday night, shall we say? Stay through to Sunday evening, perhaps. We can have lunch at the Firecrest again on the way home."

Rudy narrowed his eyes. "That isn't what I meant, and you well know it. Why are you avoiding the question?"

Mycroft tilted his head thoughtfully. "I don't know," he admitted. "Why are you?"

"Touché." He rested his chin on his steepled fingers and his eyes flickered over Mycroft. It was only a moment, but he was a Holmes. He did not smile. "You slept with them last night, finally. It was satisfactory, more than judging by the state of your hair, and you do not intend for it to be a one-off. Your new 'friends' are a police constable and a high school teacher, both as at-risk as you are if your foolishness comes to light. She was a representative of the National Union of Students during her time at Cambridge, and they both joined anti-Apartheid protests. Interesting to see that he has now joined the police despite his experiences in Trafalgar Square."

"In spite of, or perhaps because of," Mycroft suggested. The slight quirk of his eyebrow had surely given away his surprise, to his annoyance, so he accepted it and continued. "He has a genuine desire to see the system improve. Don't we all?"

Rudy sighed heavily, and finally indicated to the server that they were ready for breakfast. "I hope to God you know what you're doing Mycroft. But if you're going to spend any length of time away from home, you really do need to get yourself a mobile. I'll have one sent to your office on Tuesday morning."

Mycroft couldn't help laughing. "No one needs to get in touch with me that desperately."

"Then which are you not serious about? Your work, or your..." He trailed off and sought divine inspiration from the ornately plastered ceiling. "For God's sake, Mycroft."

"Which are you worried about?" he asked. "That there's two of them, or that they're socialists? It's not the eighties any more, Uncle. It's barely even the nineties. Red under the bed, or in it in my case, is hardly our biggest concern."

Rudy didn't look reassured, but he allowed the server to remove their paper and tea pot and set the table for breakfast. "I worry, Mycroft. Britain needs you. I won't be here forever, and your reputation must be iron-clad. Caring is not an advantage. It is a point of weakness to be ruthlessly exploited by the unscrupulous and cruel."

He stared at a point on the wall, and Mycroft watched him, traced the fixed set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his fingers when he rubbed the ring on his right hand. The silence pulled taut between them and eventually Mycroft caved. "It's just sex," he assured him, "and friendship. With two people I trust and whose company I enjoy, and with whom I share a sort of mutually assured destruction should our secret... escape. A safer proposition than many others."

Rudy nodded sharply. "I'll keep my ear out for you. Try not to let me hear anything I don't need to know, alright?"

"I will do my best." Mycroft allowed the steward in to serve their breakfast and reached for a slice of toast. "So long as we are both agreed that my parents need never, ever hear of it?"

"Agreed utterly," Rudy promised. "Not a word from me."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canon typical drug overdose in this one

Any fears he'd harboured that they had irreversibly crossed the Rubicon were dashed when the next call he got from Islington was inviting him to join them for a pub quiz in Hounslow. He and Carol squabbled comfortably over the pen for the Geography round, left Greg to it for the football, then he left the pair of them to the music round whilst he went to the bar for their third drinks of the night. Greg and Carol were both delighted to hear about his trip to the cricket, for different reasons. Mycroft left with Carol's ticket for South Africa versus India at the Oval, Greg left with promises of a ticket to the final at Lord's, and Carol left with plans for two days of retail therapy and cocktails. They all left with a promise to meet the following weekend, the other side of the Oxford trip, for tapas in Shoreditch.

And so the year rolled on. England did not cover themselves with glory in the World Cup but apart from that, and the two weeks that Carol and Greg were away in the French Alps that felt like the longest of Mycroft's life, the summer passed in heady excitement, and in the blink of an eye it was autumn and Mycroft was buried deep in mitigation projects for the dreaded Millennium Bug. Another blink and it was behind them, project successful. Mycroft took three weeks off and spent two of them in South Africa, watching cricket and wishing he were in London. On the Friday of the third week, he was in Islington, comfortable and on the edge of sleep, and trying to enjoy the weekend rather than dread the week ahead.

The shrill trill of his mobile phone, tucked safely in his jacket pocket on the back of a chair in the other room, was the last thing he wanted to hear. Carol lifted her head from her chest and stared at the doorway, grumbling when Mycroft eased out from under her and went looking for it. "World ended after all?" she asked.

"It had better have," he growled. Behind him he heard the pair of them moving, and he cursed whoever was ringing at that time of night. When he saw the name on the screen, a rather perfunctory 'S&M', he felt the irritation eroded by the acid of worry. It cut off before he could answer it, so he glanced back at the lounge door once, meeting Greg's concerned eyes, and rang back. His mother answered, and as he sank into a chair he was grateful for the warm hand on his shoulder and Carol in the background, heading for the kettle. All he could do was listen, nod agreement Mummy couldn't see, and eventually find his voice to confirm which hospital he needed to get to.

When he hung up, Greg's hand cupped his cheek and drew his attention to soft, anxious brown eyes. He stared into them, swallowing hard before he could speak. "It's Sherlock, my brother. He's had an overdose. He's... I need to get there."

"Hey, come here." Greg pulled Mycroft into his arms and held him tight, fingers combing through his hair gently whilst Mycroft clung to him. "You're alright, just breathe for a minute. It's a shock, I know. Did your mum say how he is?"

The absurdity of anyone referring to Matilda Holmes as 'your mum' floated vaguely through Mycroft's awareness, but he clung to Greg and tried to focus enough to answer his question. "She didn't know. But I'm closer than they are, I can get there sooner. Except that my damn car is at my house."

"I'll drive," Carol told him firmly. She set a mug of very sweet, very milky tea down in front of him and passed him and Greg both clean shirts. "I know Cambridge better than you two, and I won't lose my job if I get another ticket. You two drink your tea, I'll get dressed and grab some bits and pieces, then we can go."

"Carol..."

She stopped for a moment to kiss his forehead. Her hand cupped the back of his neck and she held him close for a second. "We're not letting you do this alone. Don't argue, just drink your tea."

With that she was gone, and Mycroft didn't think he could have argued if he’d wanted to. He wrapped shaking hands around his mug and tried to gulp it down as quickly as he could. By the time he was finished the tightness in his chest had eased, and he was able to pull his shirt on and do the buttons up without difficulty. Greg passed him socks and shoes, sat next to him as he pulled his own on, and then led the way down to the car park where Carol was loading a bag into the boot. She put on the mixtape she'd made for him, soothing classical music recorded off the radio on a rainy afternoon, and they didn't speak again until she'd eased to an only slightly illegal speed on the near-empty M11 motorway.

Mycroft's phone was silent in his clenched fist, so he forced himself to release his white-knuckled grip and return it to his pocket at last. In the driver's seat next to him Carol was biting her lower lip and tapping a finger against the steering wheel, eyes flickering to the sparse traffic around them as if she could will them there faster. He reached out to rest his fingers on her wrist gently. "Carol... thank you."

"You don't need to thank me, babe." She took her hand off the wheel to tangle their fingers together and squeeze tight. "I told you, you're not on your own."

He smiled. "I know. And it means a great deal."

Greg was in the back seat, and Mycroft had honestly assumed he'd nodded off, as he usually did five minutes into a car journey. He leaned forwards, though, to squeeze Mycroft's shoulder. "It's the least we can do. He'll be alright, though. It's getting them to hospital's the tricky bit. He's there, he's in good hands."

Knowing it was one thing. Having it said out loud in the reassuringly confident tones of a beat copper of the London Met who had seen it all before was something else. The fact that the beat copper in question was someone he trusted was even better, and he felt something loosen in his shoulders. "I know," he admitted. Now that the shock was wearing off, the statistics and probabilities were running through his mind, scenarios being discounted one at a time. The odds were good, but... It was a big but. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. "I might not believe it for a while, though."

"Yeah, I can understand that. We'll be there soon enough." Greg pulled back and settled down again, and Carol retrieved her hand to drive. "How fast are you going, love? Or should I not ask?"

"Seventy," she said firmly. "Allowing for a 10% margin of error either way."

Greg sighed. "You know that's not how that works, right?"

They reached the end of the first side of the tape and it ejected itself. Carol reached out and flipped it over deftly, pushed it back in with her fingertip and set it going again. The first soaring strains of the Lark Ascending drifted through the car, easing a little more of the tension. "We're about halfway now," she murmured, with a glance at the road signs on their left to confirm it. "I usually reckon one tape to Cambridge at this time of night, one and a half if there's been an accident."

"I think there was an accident every time I drove up to see you that last summer," Greg grumbled. "I got through Works 1 and 2 twice on one trip."

Mycroft shuddered. "Good god, why?"  
"Hey, you liked ELP! Or at least liked it more than the Spice Girls."

"That," Mycroft told him firmly. "Is a low bar that I will admit you managed to clear." Greg's low chuckle and Carol's faux-outrage rumbled through him, and put the demons to sleep for a little while longer.

# # #

Mycroft and Greg found their way through the hospital corridors to the A&E department, where a sympathetic receptionist pointed them into the waiting room to join a couple of drunks and a bored looking teenager to wait for further news. The teenager left not long after, collected by his dad who'd had stitches in his hand and was ignoring the doctor's instructions, and the drunks were taken through soon after that. It still wasn't exactly quiet, but they had at least found a quiet corner. Mycroft stood with his hands clasped behind his back and read through every poster on the noticeboard, whilst Greg slumped into one of the hard plastic chairs and rested his head in his hands. When Mycroft looked down at him and opened his mouth to speak, Greg shook his head with a tired smile. "Don't apologise. It's fine. And none of this is your fault anyway."

"I wasn't going to," Mycroft assured him. "Thank you, perhaps."

Greg chuckled. "That isn't necessary either." He looked over at the doorway and pulled a face. "Look, your parents. Are they... like you? I mean, are they going to take one look at us and know what's going on?"

He shook his head. "No, you don't need to worry on that count. They have a remarkable ability to see only what they want to, for a start. Sherlock, on the other hand..."

"Hey." Greg got to his feet and came to stand next to Mycroft. "I'm not worried about what they think unless you are. This is going to be shit enough; I don't want to make it worse for you."

Mycroft caught his eye and smiled. "You've done quite the opposite so far. I have high hopes of the rest of the night." Movement in the corridor beyond caught his eye and he sighed. "And now we must gird our loins."

"Once more unto the breach?" Greg asked.

"Something like that." He turned back and crossed the room to meet his parents half-way. Mummy was pale, expression pinched like she was sucking a lemon and trying not to cry at the same time, and she hugged him tightly. "I've not heard anything since I got here," he told her. "He's stable, at least, but..."

Sigur gripped his arm. The lines around his eyes were deeper, strained, but he managed a warm smile. "Thank you for coming, Mycroft. I know it's..."

"He's my brother," he pointed out. "Of course I came." He eased Mummy back carefully and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to pass to her, which she accepted gratefully and used to wipe her eyes. "I feel like..."

"We all do, Mike." Mummy blew her nose loudly, and thankfully did not try to give it back to him. She folded it and tucked it up her sleeve instead, and then wiped at her eyes again with her thumb. "Why didn't he say something?"

He frowned. "You think it was deliberate?"

"Oh, I don't know." She sighed. "Have you heard from him at all lately?"

Guilt clenched in his stomach. "I haven't. I was so snowed under with the Millennium Bug project, and then I've not been back long..."

"South Africa," Mummy said tightly. "Yes, I know. You have your own life, after all."

Greg was still at the posters, pretending to read them whilst keeping an eye on proceedings. He was as good a distraction as any, and Mycroft took it gratefully. "Speaking of which," he said, "allow me to introduce Gregory Lestrade. Gregory, my parents. Matilda and Sigur Holmes."

"Call me Greg." He approached at Mycroft's invitation and shook their hands. "Sorry to meet in these circumstances."

"Quite." Mummy looked him up and down, took in the casual jeans, Doc Marten boots and the shirt that looked as thrown on in a hurry as it had been. Mycroft bristled. "And you're..."

"Mycroft's best mate," Greg offered cheerfully, oblivious to the surge of Mycroft's heart at the truth of that simple phrase. "He was at ours when he got the call, so the missus and I drove him up here. Didn't think he was safe driving just then."

Sigur gripped Greg's offered hand in both of his. "Ah, Greg of the World Cup Final! Thank you. It's good to know Mycroft has friends he can rely on."

Greg laughed. "Should I worry what you've heard about me?"

"Only good things," Mycroft assured him. "I believe most of the conversation was dedicated to the pain of watching Australia win, though."

Mummy had finally relaxed and was no longer looking at Greg like she thought he was about to steal the family silver. She kissed him on the cheek, probably mostly to take him off guard, and gestured to the seats again. "So your partner is here too?"

"Yeah, somewhere. She went looking for a parking space. I'm not sure where, maybe Ely?"

Carol's whereabouts became clear not long after, when she hurried in through the doors still shaking rain off her umbrella and out of her hair. Greg got to his feet to head her off and warn her of the situation, and whilst they shared a quiet, worried conversation Mycroft followed him over. When he reached them, Carol was pressing a key into Greg's hand and glaring him down as only she knew how. "You have work in the morning, and you're going to have to allow more than an hour to get back to London," she was saying firmly. "Go and get some sleep. I have the direct number for the room, I will ring you if anything happens."

Greg rolled his eyes at Mycroft but wasn't arguing. "Sorry Mycroft, I should..."

"You should absolutely get some sleep," Mycroft told him. "I cannot thank you enough for tonight. You have done... more than I could ever have asked. And I assume Carol is taking over babysitting duties anyway."

"Yeah, we're not leaving you alone." To Mycroft's surprise, Greg stepped forwards and pulled him into a fierce hug. "Call me as soon as you know he's okay, yeah?" His arms were tight around Mycroft, who returned the hug more cautiously. "And don't worry about waking me up if you need to come to bed. We've only got the one key." He kissed Carol and declined her offered umbrella, and then he was gone into the night.

Carol looked up at Mycroft. "I thought... well, anyway. I got us a couple of hotel rooms round the corner. We've got two nights at the moment, we'll probably need to crash out at some point."

"You're a wonder," he told her. She grinned back at him and he looked down at her hand. "A couple of rooms?"

She dangled the key from one finger. "I assumed your parents wouldn't have been able to sort anything either before getting here."

They returned to Matilda and Sigur, and Mycroft made yet another round of introductions. Mummy insisted that Carol call her Tilda, which was frankly bewildering, and expressed a frankly startling level of gratitude for her thoughtfulness in procuring the hotel rooms. It was irritating, but better than the alternative, and at least they made no comment when Carol nodded off with her head on his shoulder not long after.

# # #

They got the good news at about three in the morning, and accepted a lift from Mummy and Sigur to the hotel, which really was only a couple of minutes around the corner. He could imagine their disdain, because it certainly wasn't the sort of place they would have picked for themselves, but the goodwill of Carol's thoughtful gesture - and, he suspected, her dazzlingly pretty smile and the way she bestowed it on Mycroft - kept them at least quiet. They were all too tired to say anything anyway, and it was clean, convenient and comfortable. Greg seemed barely awake when he let them into the room, and curled back into bed with a groan. When Mycroft slid into bed next to him, prodded into the middle by Carol, Greg pulled him closer and draped a heavy arm around his waist. Carol then shuffled closer and draped her arm over the pair of them, trapping Mycroft in the middle. He wasn't exactly complaining. Exhausted both emotionally and physically, he dropped into sleep far quicker than he'd expected.

He was aware a couple of hours later of Greg crawling out of bed and dressing. The light from the bathroom was blinding in the darkness. Carol sat up, rubbing at tired eyes, to watch him. "You going to come back this evening?"

"Yeah, I'll let them know they can't keep me late. Or try to." Greg doubled back to the bed to kiss her and hesitated for a moment as he looked over at Mycroft, still tucked under the covers, before reaching over to kiss him too. "I'll be back as soon as I can, alright? And if you..."

Carol pushed him away. "Go. Don't be late for work. Those scrotes won't arrest themselves."

"Fine, yeah." He kissed her again and, with a lingering backwards glance, was gone as quietly as he could.

Mycroft stretched out into the warm space he'd left. It was too early to go down for breakfast or to the hospital but sleep still seemed to be slipping further out of reach with every passing second. He covered his eyes with his forearm, so when Carol rested a hand on his chest he flinched away with surprise. She withdrew it immediately. "Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't..."

"You made me jump, that's all." He peered up at her in the darkness, night vision ruined by the bathroom light that Greg had turned off on his way out, so all he could see was her darker shape in the darkness of the room.

She must have had the same problem because eventually she chuckled and laid back down closer than he'd expected and returned her hand to its place on his chest. The casual intimacy of it made his breath catch for a moment, despite everything. He wished he could see her, but it occurred to him vaguely that it served him right, that he was stumbling as blindly now as she and Greg were the rest of the time. In a moment of daring, he covered her hand with his, and she responded by flexing her fingers, stroking her thumb across the faded print of Greg’s ancient T-shirt gently.

It wasn't the first time he'd been in bed with just one of them even though, really, the number of times they'd ended up in bed together wasn't that high. Or at least the number of discreet events wasn't that high. But there had been occasions when Greg dragged himself out of bed for an early shift, or the pair of them woke to find Carol marking in the living room having left them to sleep. He'd never been this awake for it, though. Or clothed, for that matter, and somehow he felt more exposed in a pair of Greg's joggers and a T shirt and with Carol in pyjamas that, if he remembered correctly, had 'Sparkle all night' on them than he ever had naked.

Carol settled down, her elbow brushing against his where they'd mirrored each other without knowing it, both resting their heads on their folded arms. It was too dark to see if she'd smiled at the gesture like he had, but he had to assume she had. It was the sort of thing she found funny. Mycroft curled his fingers around her hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles.

"Are you alright?" Carol asked him eventually, voice soft in the stillness. "With... well, anything."

He sighed and rolled his head to look at the ceiling instead of her vague shadow. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's all a bit of a mess, isn't it? I just hope... dear god, please let it have been an accident." Carol tightened her grip on his hand and shuffled closer, and he laid his arm across his eyes again. "It was his birthday last month. I was in South Africa, watching cricket. I intended to see him when I got back, but he'd already gone up, and... and I should have been there. I should have seen him this week. I didn't even go home for Christmas..."

"You were working," Carol pointed out gently. "Keeping the world from crashing and burning."

He huffed. "I didn't need to. It was all running fine; I could have afforded one day. And instead... I didn't want to," he admitted rawly. "I wanted to be here." He lifted his arm again, even though he knew he couldn't see her. "I don't know what I'm doing, and until yesterday I loved it. Now..."

She hushed him gently, pulled her hand out of his grip and reached out to cup his cheek. "You're doing your best, love."

"Then my best isn't good enough!"

"Don't say that," she whispered fiercely. He tried to protest, but she rolled over and pressed her lips to his forehead. "No one's best is perfection. Everyone makes mistakes, and families are hard. You're allowed regrets, but please don't beat yourself up over them."

He scowled at her. "My mistakes landed my little brother in hospital."

Carol brushed her fingers through his hair. "His mistakes landed him in hospital. Not yours. Your decisions come now. Now you know, what are you going to do about it?"

"Whatever he needs me to, I suppose." He tucked her hair back behind her ear by touch, fingertips skimming across her skin, and felt her breath catch. "He'll know as soon as he sees us," he commented. "That we're..." Sleeping together. Friends with benefits. Entangled. That Mycroft was rapidly, and not entirely reluctantly, falling in love with them both separately and together in the most futile and wonderful experience of his life. He sighed and didn't voice any of that. "Honestly, god knows what he'll make of us."

"Does it matter?" She shifted to sit up, kept her fingers combing through his hair, and her hair tumbled free across her shoulders again. Mycroft's hands landed on her waist automatically. "If you want, if it'll make it easier, I can stay here though."

He flexed his fingers. "And if I want you there?"

"Then where else would I be?" She bent down and, after a pause to check his reactions, kissed him gently. "You're not on your own," Carol promised. "We're here for you."

The change of position shifted them... Mycroft allowed the change of position to shift them, his hands sliding down to support her weight, his palms finding warm skin where her pyjamas had ridden up. She sighed against his lips, braced herself with one hand planted on the pillow next to his head and, when his hands slid further up to the bottom of her ribs, ducked her head again to kiss him.

# # #

Despite distractions, they got down for breakfast ahead of Matilda and Sigur and were sharing the Times between them over a pot of coffee and egg on toast that Carol had forced him to at least pick at. Mycroft set his paper aside and got up to greet them, thanking every god he could think of for their obliviousness. They shuffled things around to make space for them whilst a waitress fussed around, bringing them a fresh pot of coffee, rack of toast and tray of tiny jars of jam, and taking his parents' order for breakfast. His father checked his watch as they sat down. "Have you heard anything from the hospital, Mycroft?"

"No, nothing. We should be able to see him in about an hour, though." He poured Matilda a cup of coffee for something useful to do with his hands. "How did you sleep?"

"As well as could be expected," she told him. "I was worrying, of course. I just feel helpless. How about you and... Greg? He's not here."

Carol smiled sweetly. "No, he's had to go back to work. He's on an early shift, so should be back here this evening. Traffic permitting, of course."

"It's very good of you both to come. I'm glad Mycroft has friends looking out for him," Sigur said, with a very pointed sidelong look at Mycroft. "He's so busy these days..."

Mycroft smiled. "Well perhaps less busy this year," he offered. "Now that the Millennium Project is resolved, and the situation is less critical."

"Oh good." Matilda eyed him over her cup. "It would be lovely to see more of you. How was South Africa?"

"Long overdue, to be quite honest. Hot, beautiful. Just what the doctor ordered." He shrugged. "I thought we could go over to France this summer, perhaps after Sherlock's term ends?" He hadn't considered it at all, and as soon as the offer was out of his mouth, he regretted it. Even a week with his parents would have sounded like his idea of hell just 24 hours before. But now he knew what hell was, and even a week with his parents would be better than another of those calls.

Matilda's lips pursed. "I don't think he'll be going back to university this term. We'll take him home with us, give him time to recover away from whatever bad influence he's sunk into."

He glanced across at his father, who wisely said nothing. "Of course, Mummy. Perhaps he could come and stay with me in London for a while? Get his mind off things. He always did love the city."

"We'll see," was all she'd say, and she changed the subject quickly to Carol, interrogating her on her degree and career, Greg's career and lack of degree, and everything else. Under the table Mycroft pressed his ankle against hers in silent support, and the set of her shoulders even as she answered Matilda's questions cheerfully told him it was appreciated.

At eight on the dot, they were on Sherlock's ward to see him. By two minutes past the morning had gone downhill with alarming and entirely predictable speed. He'd taken one look over Mycroft and Carol, grey eyes flitting over them from under unruly curls that tumbled across his face, and an almost gleeful look dawned on his face. "Ah, Mycroft, I see you've finally become the bit on the side as you've always wanted. You must be the angel he swooned over that summer of '92. How did he track you down? It was legal, wasn't it, Mycroft?"

Mycroft rubbed at his forehead and remembered abruptly why he had elected to spend so little time with his brother over the years. "A chance encounter, I assure you. I prefer to keep my activities on the legal side, unlike some."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, to Mycroft's alarm, focussed his attention on Carol again. "Let's see. Teacher still, of course, married - happily so, not hiding the affair either. Husband knows then, or... nope, not an affair, of course, threesome. Not last night, though. Last night? This morning..."

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped. "Do you have to put on this show?"

Matilda gripped his arm tightly. "Mycroft, what is he talking about?"

He spared Carol a glance, and his stomach clenched when he saw her with her arms folded tightly across her chest, chin raised. She met his eyes, though, and just the corner of her mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile. "Go on," she told him gently. "I told you."

"You're..." His mother released him. "You're having an affair?"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, "They're..."

Mycroft swung round to glare at him. "Shut up. What right do you think you have? You almost died, Sherlock. You don't get to distract from that by dragging up my private life like it's some sordid secret."

"Public ward, babe," Carol murmured. "People are starting to stare."

He took a deep breath, and almost lost it again when Sherlock smirked at him. His father, on the other side of Sherlock's bed, caught his eye though. He tried to smile but couldn't hide that he was disappointed. "Mike, just... tell us what's going on. Get it out in the open, then we can all move on."

"It's called friends with benefits, I believe," he drawled, keeping as much spite out of it as he could whilst maintaining what pride he had left. "I'm sure you've heard of the concept."

Matilda scoffed. "Friends? With friends like that..."

"Ah, Matilda, I thought I heard your voice from halfway down the corridor." Uncle Rudy swept into the room, drawing even more attention to the ongoing soap opera around Sherlock's bed. Mycroft was glad to see him, even if he still wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. "I should have known it was my lot causing the drama. William, good to see you awake. You gave us quite the scare last night. Sigur, Mycroft. Carol! Lovely to see you my dear." He bent to kiss her cheek and stayed long enough to whisper something that warmed her smile a little. The tension hadn't ebbed at all, but he held it at bay with affable control. "Now, what exactly have I walked into?"

Matilda drew herself up to her full height and glared him down. "We were just hearing about your nephew," she spat, laying the blame firmly and clearly at his feet, "and his liaisons."

"Ah, I did wonder if that was the issue." He looked Mycroft up and down and nodded to himself. "Come on, let's find a quieter location with fewer witnesses, shall we? Carol, be a dear and make sure William doesn't try climbing out of the window."

One of the orderlies who'd been trying to pretend she wasn't listening in showed them into an empty consulting room and closed the door behind them. As soon as it clicked shut the tension broke like a thunderstorm, and Mycroft leaned back against the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, whilst his mother ranted for over a minute. She was building herself up to a peak when Rudy held his hand up to stop her. "That's enough, Matilda. He's right there, you don't need to shout."

"You knew about this, Rudy?" Mycroft’s father asked, aghast. "And you didn’t…"  
"Oh for god’s sake Sigur, if you’re about to ask me why I didn’t tell you, that’s an answer in itself. I fail to see how it’s any of your business, or any of mine for that matter." He stabbed his pipe, a permanent fixture in his hand even in a hospital, in Mycroft’s direction. "At least it’s legal. That’s more than I could say at his age."  
Sigur frowned but had no response. Mummy, of course, didn’t have that problem. She was still glaring at Mycroft like she could combust him on the spot. "It’s not dignified, Mycroft! You’re a grown man, you should be settling down, not engaged in some tawdry affair as the plaything of a married couple. And for god’s sake, what do you even see in them? I didn’t think you were shallow."  
Mycroft saw Rudy move, turning towards him with some platitude, no doubt. It was too late for that, though. "I do apologise, mother. Shall I take up recreational drugs instead, then you can divide your time between here and Royal Holloway?" He met her glare head on, back straight and fists clenched. "Allow me to make this clear: I don’t give a damn what you think of me or my relationships, but the very least you can do is respect them, even if you don’t respect me. They drove me here in the middle of the night so I wouldn’t have to be alone, and then stayed because I asked them to. They are good people I am lucky to know, and yes, I’m sleeping with them and plan to keep doing so, in between dinners in Soho and talks at the Royal Geographical Society and cricket matches at Lord’s and generally, actually, most of the things that bring me joy in life."  
"Mycroft," Sigur said quietly. "We are concerned about you, that’s all."  
"On what possible basis?" he demanded. "You know nothing about them. Quite frankly, you know nothing about me either."  
"Clearly not," Mummy said.   
The truth of it settled between them uncomfortably. Mycroft turned away and leaned on the back of a chair, head hanging low. "There's nothing to tell," he said at last. "It's a casual arrangement between consenting adults who enjoy each other’s company." As much as it hurt to admit it, to put their situation into words, and as much as he wished it weren't the truth, that was the facts of the matter. "I don't have time in my life for anything complicated, and they are quite beautifully uncomplicated. And, to my eternal gratitude, wonderfully generous, compassionate and kind. Above anything else, they are my friends."  
Matilda clenched her jaw and turned away. "We'd better get back to your brother. Of all the days to bring this up..."  
"Well, you can take that up with him when..."  
"I'm not talking about him, Mycroft." She wheeled back on him. "I understand you have... something with them. But did you have to bring them here, now?"  
He didn't look back at her. "Yes. I needed them and they were there for me. Can't you just..." He trailed off. 'Be happy for me' was clearly too much to ask. "We should go back to Sherlock."  
His parents left first, under the same thundercloud that they'd arrived under, and Rudy caught his elbow before he could follow them. "You knew this would happen," he said quietly. "It's why you avoided telling them in the first place."  
"I didn't know." Mycroft sighed. "I had hoped... Regardless, it's done now. I can't promise I won't punch Sherlock before this is over, though."  
"You won't punch him." Rudy patted his shoulder. "Might sneak something into his tea. It can't be worse than what he's been taking. Look, I'll arrange a car to take Carol back to London, save Gregory coming out to collect her. Then I can take you back with me when I go this afternoon or tomorrow, alright?"  
Mycroft nodded his assent, albeit reluctantly. "I know it must seem foolish, but..."  
"Mycroft." Rudy stopped him. They stared at each other in silence, and eventually he looked away with a heavy sigh. "I met Charles in sixty four, you know? In another time... Well, he'd still be here, I imagine."  
"I'm sorry," Mycroft said softly. "I was always fond of him."  
"And he of you, dear boy." He reached up to squeeze Mycroft's shoulder gently. "Caring is not an advantage. It's bloody hard work, if I'm honest. But sometimes you can't help it."  
He chuckled. "Apparently so. Take Sherlock, for example. He's an ass, and yet..." He shrugged. "We should go and make sure he hasn't made his escape."  
"Quite," Rudy agreed. "And make sure my idiot brother hasn't promised him too much. Thank goodness the brains only skipped a generation in that line."

# # #

Sherlock returned to the cottage in Sussex with their parents. It was agreed, mostly by their mother, that that was best for him. His tutor had been summoned and arrangements had been made for him to restart in September, repeat first year. Between a very awkward dinner and their departure, Mycroft managed to snatch a moment alone with him, in his room whilst they packed his bags. "I've given you my mobile number," he said quietly. "If you need getting out of there, call me and I will come."

"Why?" Sherlock asked him. "Why would I..."

Mycroft fixed him with a glare. "Tell me that you won't be going completely mad within twelve hours of getting home."

Sherlock sighed heavily. He zipped his bag closed sharply and hefted it. "I appreciate the offer, brother mine. But I wouldn't want to disturb your cosy domesticity."

"Any time," Mycroft promised him. That stopped Sherlock in his tracks, for a moment at least, and he looked up at Mycroft warily. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. But I am now."

"Oh good. Just what I wanted."

He swept out of the room, leaving Mycroft to follow behind with the rest of his bags, and by the time Mycroft got downstairs Sherlock was sulking in the back seat of the car. Sigur met Mycroft by the back of the car and took the bags from him. "How was he?"

"Taciturn, as always. Look, if you think he needs a distraction, just call me and I'll come and get him. I've told him the same." He helped pack the bags as well as they could. "London is full of distractions, not all of them harmful."

Sigur glanced up at him. "And will your... Your friends be there?"

"No." Mycroft closed the boot firmly and turned away. "You'd better get off if you want to get home in daylight."

"Oh, yes. Are you alright getting back with Rudy? We can give you a lift if you'd rather..."

He shook his head. "No, it's fine. Rudy needs to go through the centre anyway."

"Alright." Sigur shook his hand and then, after Mycroft failed to fend off another tearful hug from his mother, they pulled out of the car park and out of sight.

Rudy was waiting for him when he turned back, puffing on his pipe and leaning on the rear wing of a sleek black Bentley. He raised an eyebrow in question, looked Mycroft up and down and smiled. "It'll be alright. One way or another."

"Will it?"

"As long as you define 'alright' very precisely." Rudy tapped his pipe out and straightened up. "Ready to go? And where are we taking you?"

Mycroft finally smiled. "Do I need to give you the address?"

"Let's pretend you do. Islington somewhere, wasn’t it?"

Greg was waiting in the doorway before Mycroft even reached their landing, which lit something warm in his chest, throwing into sharp relief the numbness that had seeped through him over the weekend. He took Mycroft's bag from him and let him into the flat, and as soon as Mycroft had his shoes off pulled him into a tight hug. Mycroft leaned into him with a sigh, wrapping his arms around Greg tightly. "Thank you," he breathed. "I'm sorry it's so late, but..."

"Don't be daft," Greg told him. His hand cupped the back of Mycroft's neck and held him close. "You're always welcome here, any time. Are you alright?"

"Not really," he admitted. "But better than I was ten minutes ago already."

Greg chuckled. The vibrations rumbled through Mycroft's chest, loosening more of the tension. "Well, that's a start. Come on, there's a wine with your name on it."

He rested a hand in the small of Mycroft's back to steer him into the living room, where Carol was ready with the promised glass of wine. Her marking was stacked in neat piles on the table and there was a book abandoned on the table next to her end of the sofa and the new Wisden on the matching table at Greg's end with another, untouched glass of wine. Greg settled into his usual seat, and when Mycroft sat next to him he pulled him closer with an arm around his shoulders. "Door locked, curtains pulled, the world can fuck off for the night," he told Mycroft.

"You have such a way with words." He was teasing, but it was true. After his first sip of wine he leaned back further against Greg, and ended up with his back against Greg's chest, one of Greg's arms wrapped around his waist, and his feet tangled with Greg's and Carol's. "I don't know what I would have done without you this weekend," he admitted, swirling his wine in his glass idly. "I'm sorry my parents are..."

Carol shook her head. "You don't need to apologise for them. We didn't go in there expecting them to get it, did we?"

"And you would have coped," Greg told him. His arm tightened around Mycroft and he pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple. "But you don't have to just cope, not if we can make it easier."

Mycroft closed his eyes and took another sip of his drink. On his other side, Carol slid closer, pulled his legs into her lap and rested her hands on his calves. "Do you want to talk about it? Or shut it out for the night?"

He thought about it. Weighed truth and risk and hurt against each other, and took another, larger, drink of his wine. "I'm older than Sherlock by seven years, and we had a sister a year younger than him. We were thirteen and six when she died." Carol's hands rubbed a soothing stripe up to his knees and back down to his ankles. Behind him, Greg made a distressed murmur. Before they could speak, Mycroft ploughed on. "She was brilliant. An era defining intellect, so we were told. Too brilliant. By the time she died, I believe she had killed twice, burned down our home and the institution where she was being held. And she... She said she was making Sherlock laugh, but it wasn't laughter." He took another mouthful of wine and forced himself to open his eyes to look at Carol, even if he couldn't read Greg. She hadn't moved from her spot, but she was horrified. Horrified for him, not by him, he realised. It gave him strength to push on a little further. "Musgrave, my home, burned down in the summer and we went to stay with Rudy. He has the family estate in Surrey, a sprawling place much too big for him, but big enough for us to rattle around in without bothering him. And I suppose he took a liking to me whilst I was there. My parents moved out the next summer, found a tumbledown cottage in Sussex with roses around the door, but I stayed with Rudy and started at Westminster in the September. I went back to them for holidays, but Rudy's house became home. I spent my weekends there. And every holiday, the gulf between me and my family seemed to yawn wider so... I stopped going."

"You know that's not your fault, don't you?" Greg asked.

He sighed. "Isn't it? I didn't even go home for Christmas. If I'd wanted to, I could have, but... I feel more at home here than I ever have at my parents' cottage."

"Is that because of something you've done? Or because we've made you feel at home here?" Carol asked. "Just... don't beat yourself up for their decisions, please. You were a child when they left you behind."

"I know." Mycroft swallowed hard and drained his glass. Before he could set it aside, Greg reached across to take it from him and place it on the table with his own, half-finished and abandoned. His free arm now wrapped around Mycroft again, and Mycroft failed to suppress, didn't even really try, a soft noise of frustration and contentment and gratitude and everything else. It was all too much, and tears pricked at his eyes. "But Sherlock... I don't know how I can help him. I've let him down."

Carol squeezed his ankles again. "Can't change the past, love. But we're here for you for whatever comes next. You're not on your own, not anymore."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock returned to university at the start of the next academic year. It was hardly smooth sailing from that point, but somehow he had made it almost to the end of his third year with only minor disruptions. His final exams were under way and then… well, then he really did become Mycroft’s problem. A bridge to cross when they came to it, albeit one that was hurtling towards him.

Mycroft let himself into the familiar Islington flat and followed his nose to the kitchen. He set his briefcase down on the side, out of the way, rested his hands on Greg's waist and his chin on his shoulder, and gave in to the invitation to wrap his arms around Greg's waist and press himself against his back. The week melted away into the steam and was washed away by Bowie on the radio and the golden light of an early evening in early summer slanting in through the window. Something fragrant was bubbling away on the stove under Greg's watchful eye, and he smacked the back of Mycroft's hand away from it, pulling it to his lips to kiss instead before going back to what he was doing. "You had a good day off, then?" Mycroft asked. "Found yourself a new recipe book?"

"Newish," Greg confirmed. "Had it a while but hadn't cracked it open. Thought today was a good day for a wander round the markets." He had to squeeze out of Mycroft's hold to go to the fridge, and Mycroft shifted out of the way again. "How was your week? World still going?"

Mycroft chuckled. "For now. It was mostly tedious, to be honest. I've been thinking about this evening since half past nine on Monday morning."

"That late?" Greg grabbed Mycroft's tie and pulled him in for a kiss, grinning against his lips. "I suppose I did get up before you."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes yes, our poor put-upon law enforcement. We are grateful for your sacrifice."

"You get sarky when you're hungry." Greg finished removing Mycroft's tie, tucked it in his pocket for him and pushed him towards the doorway. "Go on, herself should be spread across the dining table by now and we're going to need it for eating off soon."

Mycroft followed the nudge through and dropped his briefcase off in the corner of the living room out of the way. As promised, the dining table was scattered with piles of lined A4 paper, cheap and smudged, in nearly-neat divisions. There were two sets of short essays, separated by graphs and quiz-style answer sheets. Carol held up a finger as she whipped down the answers on her current page, mostly ticks this time, and held it there until she'd scrawled the score in the top corner and flipped it onto the 'done' pile. "Sorry, love." She tipped her head back when he approached, and he bent to kiss her. "I'm on a bit of a roll."

He smiled and took the seat next to her. "Want a hand?"

"I'd love it, but they've started to cotton on. Accused me of outsourcing my work to the first years. I've told them I wouldn't trust it to anyone below year twelve, but you know what kids are like." She paused and tipped her head. "Well, some of them."

Mycroft gave himself time to really look at her, pick out the tell-tale signs. A long week, not enough kids who cared about their subject, not enough time to get them up to speed before the exams started. Something at home but not a row, and not anything he'd done. Something else on her mind. He pushed the thoughts away as well as he could and reached to start straightening up the piles. "Are you alright?" he asked. "Or rather, why aren't you alright?"

She gave him a fond smile from under her lashes. "I'm fine," she assured him. "Just got a lot on my mind. Not all of it interesting. I'll... Oh, I'll tell you after dinner."

"In that case, we should clear and lay the table. I'm under instructions, I'll have you know."

Carol leaned over and kissed his cheek. "He does like telling you what to do."

He blushed and didn't bother telling her what she already knew. Instead, he helped her file away her work for another day, fetched the placemats and cutlery from the sideboard and laid the table, ready for her to return with the plates and a pile of naan from the kitchen. Greg followed her through a moment later with the curry and sent Mycroft to fetch the rice. They took their usual seats, passed around the dishes and the little tray of sauces and chutneys, and although Carol was still quiet Greg balanced her out with a constant happy chatter about the markets and the bus full of tourists and school kids out for a rare trip.

After dinner was finished and the table cleared, washing up done and the door firmly locked, Carol popped into the bedroom and left Greg and Mycroft to their own devices in the living room. Greg caught his eye and topped his head towards the door. "It's not just me, is it? She's... off."

"Not just you," Mycroft agreed. "Is she alright?"

Greg shrugged. "I think we're about to find out."

"Ah, the intuition of a bobby." Carol reappeared already looking more like her usual self, with a teasing grin and an imperious wave that commanded them onto the sofa. "Sit down, close your eyes, hold your hands out."

Mycroft's heart lurched suddenly and his throat constricted, but he did as he was told. His mind raced through possibilities, ruling them all out in turn until there was only one, the first one that had occurred to him, and Carol had placed a small plastic stick in his hands. Next to him, Greg made a curious, excited noise.

"Go on, you can open them again."

Mycroft just stared down at the little white stick in his hand, and the two clear blue lines. Next to him, Greg spoke for both of them. "Bloody hell, Carol! You've got a bun in the oven!"

She laughed and held out another identical stick. "I've got at least half a dozen of these. And god, I know we need to talk about it, I get that," she said, and her eyes flickered over Mycroft - because things were going to change, or because he hadn't said anything? - before returning to her hand. "But you know what they say about tossing a coin, and you know when it comes down what you want it to be?"

For the first time in the four years he'd divided between his flat and theirs, Mycroft found himself lost for words not because he didn't have a response but because he didn't know what the right response was. He wanted to know what it meant, what it would change, how it would change, what they wanted from him, if they wanted anything, but none of that was right and there weren't rules for this and this is why all of this was a bad idea. When in doubt, though, he had often found himself thinking _"What would Greg say now?"_ , so he swore softly.

"Well," Carol said, laughing. "I think that's the first time I've heard you say that outside the bedroom."

Greg grinned. "I've heard him say it in here a few times before."

The mood broke. Carol cackled and wheeled around to plonk herself between them on the sofa, grabbing one of their hands in each of hers. It wasn't until Mycroft had wrapped his other hand around hers, trapping it between both of his, that he looked over and realised that Greg had done the same on the other side. Their eyes met and he smiled. "I stand by my comment," he said primly. "It was a perfectly valid use of the word."

"I'm not arguing. I think I said it a few times in the loos at work." Carol squeezed his hand. "Now... Right, so, I can't stop grinning so obviously I want to keep it. And I'm going to. But you two," she said firmly, "have only just found out, so I'm not expecting or even wanting a decision tonight. Whatever you want, we'll make it work somehow. But we're going to do it properly, like grownups."

Greg had obviously made his mind up already. He'd been wanting children for years, Mycroft knew from the way he was around his niece and the occasional longing glance outside toy shops. He stared at Carol in wonder. "Do you know..."

"Nope. Nothing." She tipped her head back onto the back of the sofa and giggled. "I'm pregnant. Jesus Christ, I'm pregnant."

"Edinburgh," Mycroft blurted. They both turned to look at him and he ran the thought through his mind a few times to work out what he was thinking. "We were, uh..." He blushed just thinking about it. "Unrestrained, shall we say? And dreadfully badly behaved."

Greg laughed. "Honestly, it's a bit of a miracle we didn't all come away from that week pregnant." He rubbed at his chest where Carol elbowed him in the ribs but didn't stop laughing. "Good. Well, I hope it was that week. It'd be right, you know?"

"You're getting mushy already," Carol told him, sounding decidedly mushy herself. She laughed when Mycroft pulled her in for a hug, and harder when Greg piled on top - ever so carefully - to hug them both. "Oh god, I'm going to cry. I'm not allowed to cry, I've still got mascara on!"

"Alright." Greg got up. "I'll fetch your make-up wipes."

She laughed harder, and cried, and if she got mascara on Mycroft's shirt he didn't care. Just made a mental note to ring Rudy the following morning. Then Greg returned, with make-up wipes and tissues and the brightest smile Mycroft had ever seen, and he amended the call to Sunday afternoon.

# # #

"So what is it you actually want?" Rudy asked him, glass of port in one hand and his pipe in the other, like they were discussing the cricket or the weather instead of Mycroft's increasingly complicated love life. "You don't seem unhappy with the development."

"On the contrary, I'm delighted. But as dearly as I would love..." He sighed. "In another world, Uncle, but that is not the one we inhabit."

Rudy smiled. "Ah. We're back there again."

'Back there'. Mycroft leaned his head back and couldn't help smiling. "Hardly, Uncle. If you had told me that day that I would one day find myself in this mess, I should have been over the moon. Fate is a funny creature, isn't it?"

"Hmm. It's, what, five years since you were reunited? And her thirtieth was the month after Sherlock's little 'incident', so she's..."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Thirty three, as you well know. Let's not pretend you don't know every trivial detail of my life or theirs." He pressed his fingers together against his lips to stop himself from smiling.

"Indeed. So I can assure you, if it's required, that there are no other participants in their life. I know, too, that there's only been two weekends this year when you didn't spend any time at their flat or otherwise with them, and they have still only been to your apartment twice. Why is that?" He didn't allow Mycroft to answer, though. "It could be that you're still holding something back, some part of yourself that's kept secret from them, which is of course true. But I've seen it. Really, Mycroft, it looks like a hotel room. You no longer think of your apartment as home, do you? Their flat is home, yours is somewhere to sleep."

"And Sherlock does not have a key for their flat," Mycroft added with a tight smile, unwilling to unpack all of that in one go, or ever if he could help it. "Not that that would stop him if he were determined, but it does at least minimise the risk of coming home to experiments in the fridge." He sighed. "They will have to move, though. The flat is barely big enough for them as it is, it will certainly not be big enough to raise a child in."

Rudy watched him thoughtfully and puffed on his pipe in silence until it grew uncomfortable. Even then, he simple shifted in his seat, set his port aside and set about refilling his pipe. Eventually, once he'd relit his pipe and shaken out the match, he reached for his glass again with a heavy sigh. "Well." He fixed Mycroft with a look that seemed to go right through him. "To put it bluntly, Mycroft, you have what appears to be a long-term committed relationship with two people which is emotionally, intellectually and sexually satisfying. You're nearly thirty, so if you had any intentions of finding a more conventional relationship you would have to start thinking about it soon, but we don't know you don't. If you were anyone else, I'd tell you to hang the conventions and commit to it. You have the skillset to succeed at whatever you put your mind to and could consult quite easily while keeping your domestic situation under wraps if you so choose. However, you are not anyone else."

"Uncle..."

"You have responsibilities, Mycroft. I am not a young man..." He glared when Mycroft scoffed. "I am not a young man, and I am not without enemies. Should anything happen to me, even a temporary inconvenience, many of my duties will fall to you. And then there's the matter of your sister."

Mycroft's jaw worked but he kept his silence, glaring into the hearth. His fingers twitched on the leather arm of the chair, just the once, before he forced himself to still. "You have a proposal, then?"

"For every eventuality, of course." He gestured at a filing cabinet in the corner of the room, where he kept his personal business papers. "I'm in the process of acquiring a couple of properties on the Isle of Dogs, part of the ongoing development work. There's a rather nice four bedroom semi-detached in Mudchute, close to the Underground and the Greenwich tunnel, and an apartment in Canary Wharf. I have other options, of course, and the city is replete with them, but those two should be ready for rental within the next six months. The house first," he added, slightly more gently, although it was only a slight drop in his pitch that gave him away. "I fear the apartment development is beset with delays. But I would feel safer if you'd take the apartment. It has impressive security; or will do once they finish it."

Mycroft considered it. He already ached at the idea of living with them and then leaving, but a few months... "The lease on my apartment is up in September."

"I can have the house ready by then. If they accept, of course. And don't worry, I'll charge them enough that they don't feel beholden to me. Mate's rates, I think they're called? Anything for my great nephew." He swapped his port for the paper, the conversation dealt with as far as he was concerned, and hummed thoughtfully. "I suspect dear Carol will describe the place as 'magnolia', but you can let her know that I have no objections to her redecorating if she so chooses."

He ran through several possible variations of that conversation in his mind, and couldn't stop himself smiling. "I look forwards to watching the arguments. Thank you, Rudy."

Rudy just shook his paper out and grunted, but he couldn't help smiling either.

# # #

The dulcet tones of Starship rather blasted through the house, audible as soon as Mycroft walked in the door, and he followed them up the stairs to the top floor, where Carol was sitting in the middle of the nursery floor, putting together flat pack and singing along at the top of her voice. Greg was in the doorway, staying out of the way to await instructions, and hummed contentedly when Mycroft wrapped his arms around him from behind and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "Hey. Good day at work?"

"Passable," he demurred. "I restrained myself from defenestrating anyone." He tightened his arms around Greg's laughter and lowered his voice. "I'm sure I'll regret this question, but what on earth is she doing?"

"A bookcase, I think. Could be a table." Greg laced his fingers together with Mycroft's. "I think the old joke goes, 'I'm married to her, what's your excuse?'"

Mycroft pressed his lips against Greg's cheek and grinned when Carol flipped them a very rude gesture over her shoulder. "She came as part of a set. Buy one get one free, and it would have been cruel to leave her."

"Oi!" she laughed. "I can hear you. Come here and say that to my face."

The track finished and moved on to something even worse, but he did anyway, bent down to kiss her with a finger under her chin gently. "You should know better, Mrs Lestrade. Rock and roll is a terrible foundation for a city."

"Hmm, well the San Andreas Fault isn't much better." She let him help her up and grinned when his eyes dropped to her bump. "She appreciates my taste in music, at least."

"Our child is going to have very interesting taste in music," Mycroft conceded, even as saying 'our child' made his heart flip again. "I'll have to see to it that she at least knows who the Romantic composers are and how to identify compositions from the Baroque."

Greg sighed. "That leaves me to cover all the 'fuck the police' stuff, which is gonna be a bit awkward." Mycroft opened his mouth but stopped when Greg pointed a finger at him. "Don't say it. I expect that level of crude humour from her, but you're supposed to be above all that."

"I quite enjoy fucking the police," Carol chimed in.

"Yeah, like that," Greg sighed. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. "Anyway. Dinner?"

Mycroft reached up to begin removing his own tie. "I'll be down in a few minutes looking slightly less over-dressed."

"But only slightly," Carol teased him. "Can you bring my slippers with you?"

He agreed and ducked into their bedroom at the other end of the landing, hung his suit jacket and tie up in his end of the wardrobe, put his cufflinks back in their case and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow whilst he looked around the room. They had a king-sized bed at last, which even Carol hadn't managed to fall out of despite insisting on swapping with Greg so she slept closer to the door and, as she pointed out, the bathroom. Her slippers were tucked neatly at the end of the bed, a pair of ridiculous pink fluffy boots, between Greg's 'granddad slippers' and his own very sensible dark grey moccasins. Also 'granddad slippers' according to Carol, but she had a pair shaped like unicorn faces, so they'd decided to quietly ignore her judgement. He sat on the end of the bed to pull his slippers on, then left and followed the music down to the kitchen. It was, thankfully, a slightly less modern selection. Rumours, the West German Target release that Greg swore by rather than Carol's much-loved vinyl. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs just to listen to them, Carol laughing whilst Greg serenaded her, probably with a spoon in his hand in place of a microphone or a frying pan held as a guitar. They looked round when he entered and eyes bright with laughter brightened further.

"There you are," Greg said, dropping his frying pan onto the work surface and reaching for the chopping board instead. "Pizza and documentaries tonight?"

Mycroft grinned back at him. "Sounds absolutely perfect."

# # #

Another late night in another hospital waiting room. Cheerful posters and fliers scattered on every table, white-faced young men staring into the distance or pacing the length of the room, fingers twitching for cigarettes they didn't dare duck outside to smoke, everyone turning towards the doors when they opened in the hope that this time it was them. Mycroft ached to reach out and take Greg's hand, tangle their fingers together and cling on, but it was too public for that so they caught each other’s eyes and smiled tightly, trying to be reassuring. Eventually, it was their turn. 16th November 2003, 07:21. Just as the sun rose somewhere behind the leaden clouds. Bethany Rebecca Lestrade, 7lb 2oz. Tiny, perfect, and very, very loud.

Greg looked like he didn't dare release her even enough to dry his eyes. He stared down at her with bewildered wonder, grinning from ear to ear when her wide blue eyes landed on him and she clenched a tiny fist in his T shirt. "Hey little princess," he whispered. "Welcome to the world."

"Told you he'd be mushy," Carol murmured. She leaned into Mycroft's embrace contentedly, still floating on whatever the anaesthiologist had given her, eyes dropping towards much-needed sleep as the adrenaline wore off. When Mycroft's arms tightened around her she hummed happily. "We can take her home today."

He kissed her temple gently. "Go to sleep. We're not going anywhere, my love."

Once he'd helped her settle down comfortably and tucked the hospital quilt around her carefully, he went to join Greg on the surprisingly comfortable visitors' chairs by the side of the bed. Across the ward there were other families all lost in their own little miracles, so he allowed himself one moment to lean in and kiss Greg's cheek when no one was looking, the reached out a trembling finger to stroke Bethany's chubby little cheek. She turned towards him and made a grumbly little noise but couldn't keep her eyes open enough to focus. Her other fist closed around his finger, and she went to sleep like that holding onto the pair of them.

"Christ," Greg whispered eventually. "We're dads, Mycroft. And she's... how is she so small?"

He laughed, desperate and wondering, and nearly cried. "I have no idea. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Greg leaned against him, so Mycroft wrapped his arm around his shoulder as casually as he could, desperately counting down the seconds until they were safely behind closed doors at home. A large part of him didn't really care what people thought anyway. The annoying voices at the back of his mind, his parents and Rudy and Carol's mum and everyone who wasn't Carol and Greg and tiny Bethany, were shoved to the side and drowned out by the pounding of his heart and a joy so complete it consumed him. "I'm so looking forwards to getting to know her."

# # #

Carol sat in the middle of the living room floor, knees bent around Bethany lying between them. She shook a rattle over her and grinned when tiny hands reached out, uncoordinated still, to bat at it. "Is that annoying?" she asked. "Is it annoying you? Or do you want it? Is that it, do you want the rattle? Or do you just want Mummy to stop making silly noises at you?"

Bethany burbled at her and reached out for the rattle again.

"You're too little, munchkin. Chubby little munchkin, only got little hands yet." She handed it over anyway and Bethany hugged it to her chest, shoving one of the rubber petals in her mouth and chewing on it. "Ah, of course, I should have realised."

Mycroft and Greg watched them from the doorway, arms around each other's waists and a camera in Greg's free hand. They caught each other's eyes and Mycroft just had to lean over and kiss the silly grin that split his face. "Do you think she knows we're here?" he asked quietly.

She laughed, and Bethany responded by throwing the rattle as far as she could. Thankfully it wasn't far. "Do you think they're going to come and join us, or just stand there and watch us all day?" Carol asked Bethany. “What do you think?”

Mycroft slid his hand down Greg's back, squeezed his bum on the way through, and pushed him gently forwards. "We have been summoned."

"I'm used to it." Greg took the camera with him and snapped another shot as soon as Mycroft sat down next to Carol. He gave Greg a warning glance, but stole a kiss from Carol anyway and rested his chin on her shoulder to stare down at Bethany. "How did I get so lucky?" Greg asked them, staring at the photo he'd just taken. "How did we end up here?"

"Courage, maturity and lust," Mycroft answered promptly. "Not to mention a certain amount of luck and a lot of patience."

Carol chuckled. "Well, we know who the brains of the operation is, don't we?" She tapped Bethany's nose. "Let's hope you got your Papi's brain, yeah? Leave me and Daddy in the dust by the time you're five."

Fears he'd been fighting to suppress surged at the suggestion, but he kept any hint of it from showing and instead pulled a wry smile and rested his cheek against Carol's shoulder. "I wouldn't wish my brain on anyone," he admitted. "It has its uses, but... It's not the easiest."

She leaned back and kissed his cheek. "I happen to quite like your brain." She reached back to wrap a hand around the back of his neck so she could hold him in place to kiss him properly. "And the rest of you."

"And we aren't your parents," Greg pointed out. "And she has you. If she does have your brains, all we'll have to worry about is her taking over the world by the time she's sixteen. Especially as she's going to be quite the looker if she takes after you two. Brains and beauty. Lethal combination." He turned to look at the pair of them and smiled crookedly. "I should know."

Carol swallowed hard, and when she managed to speak her voice was unsteady. "Mushy, I told you. Honestly, men and babies."

"Well," Mycroft murmured, looking down at Bethany grabbing onto Greg's finger. "Can you blame us?"

# # #

They waited until she was six months old before the christening, which was held at the parish church just down the road and followed by a buffet lunch at the pub around the corner from it. She was sitting up by then, endlessly curious, and had a scattering of soft, downy ginger hair and one front tooth. A lot of Carol's colleagues came, from the current school and the one in Islington, course mates from her teacher training and university days, a couple of Greg's police colleagues, and a handful of the neighbours they'd gradually got to know, along with the bits of Greg and Carol's families that they were talking to - it was amazing how the arrival of a child magically repaired previously shattered relationships when the will was there. And then there was Rudy, who accepted the invitation for a cuddle with surprising grace and gave her a very stern talking to in Latin, and Sherlock who did not accept the invitation. Mycroft cornered him in the pub and declined the offered cigarette. "Thank you, but I've given up."

"Have you? That's good." Sherlock blew smoke away from him, which struck him as unusually considerate, and frowned at something in the distance. "I'll tell Mummy, she'll be ever so pleased."

"No she won't. She thinks I gave up years ago." He ran a concerned eye over Sherlock and allowed himself to relax a little. "Thank you for coming. I know you must be busy with your research."

Sherlock chuckled. "Not so busy I can't take a day off for my niece's christening." He appeared to ignore Mycroft's wince, but stubbed his cigarette out unfinished and leaned back in the booth. “She looks... healthy."

"The picture of health. All development normal, so I'm told." He chuckled. "Even sleeping through the night at least once a fortnight."

"Ah. You must be looking forwards to getting your own place again." Sherlock raised an eyebrow when Mycroft looked over at him sharply. "Rudy told me that your apartment is nearly ready. Another couple of weeks, isn't it? He was saying that I might be able to stay with you over the summer if our parents are being insufferable."

Mycroft rubbed at the base of his ring finger, and hid the gesture under the table. It was annoying habit he'd developed recently and not been able to break yet. "Yes, I believe so," he admitted. "There was a problem with the electrics, but it's been resolved. Kitchen fitting next week, and then I can... stop imposing on their hospitality."

"Nonsense. I'm sure they've enjoyed having you, and the extra pair of hands must have been a great help. You spent enough time at their place when they lived in Islington, after all, and that was a much smaller flat." Sherlock shrugged. "I'm surprised you're moving out at all, actually. After all, you seem so... happy."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock..."

"Do you care that much about what people think? About your career? More than about..."

"Sherlock!" He dropped his hand and his defences for a moment, and it shut Sherlock up more effectively than words could have. "I am happy. But my happiness cannot be my priority. I have other people to think about. And you, much as you don't want to recognise it, are one of them." That struck a nerve, too, and Sherlock jerked away. Too many late nights in too many hospitals. "I will always be there for you, Sherlock. For as long as you need me." He sighed when Sherlock's jaw clenched, and forced himself to stretch his legs out under the table, rest his hands on his stomach with the fingers interlaced. "And one of us has to be the responsible adult. I seem to be rather good at that. Besides, it will be good to be able to bring my work home again without risking jammy handprints all over it."

Sherlock continued to glare a hole into the wall until Mycroft got bored of waiting for him. When he made to stand up, though, Sherlock’s hand shot out and closed around Mycroft's wrist. "Are you doing this because you want it, or because he wants it?"

"What I want is irrelevant, Sherlock." Mycroft detached Sherlock's hand gently. "Caring is not an advantage, brother mine. It's bloody inconvenient at times."

He appeared to lapse into silence again, but only waited until Mycroft had gone a couple of paces before calling out, "Oh, brother." He looked Mycroft up and down and raised an eyebrow. "You've put on weight again."

"Yes." Mycroft frowned down at him. "I am aware."

"Good." He sank down in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, and Mycroft was sure he didn't imagine him muttering 'it suits you' just before he got out of earshot, heading to reclaim his daughter from a dizzy art teacher.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter for warnings

"It really is frightfully inconvenient, Mycroft, but it can't be helped. I'll be back from Windsor on the 9th, I should think, but I really can't avoid the flight on the 7th." Rudy harrumphed down the phone, again, and Mycroft rolled his eyes in what he hoped was a conciliatory silence. "Really, it's most inconvenient of him. With China up to their usual games and an earthquake, and not to mention the wedding!"

"I'm sure his holiness did not intend to die at such an inopportune moment," Mycroft said. "Perhaps you should have a word with his manager."

Rudy was silent in the sharp way that only he could be, but only for a second. "You, young man, are growing sarcastic." He paused. "Is there someone with you?"

"My assistant." Mycroft turned to face her, smiling down at her and admiring her work. Bethany must have appreciated the attention, because she picked up her drawing - if you could call it that - and flourished it at him. "Thank you, my dear. Impeccable work, as always."

"When did you hire an assistant?"

"Oh, she's in her trial period." He tilted the picture to see if it would acquire any deeper meaning, but it continued to elude him. "She's a bit young, but I am confident that with time she'll prove more than up to the job."

His uncle sighed deeply. "Mycroft. Have you got Bethany there with you?"

He settled back into his armchair, where he could watch her start on her next drawing in comfort. "Of course. What did you think I would be doing with my day off?" The living room of his luxurious penthouse apartment, which had once been like something out of a show home or painfully sincere interior design magazine, had started to look decidedly more lived in recently. A throw on the sofa that Carol had brought over and refused to take away, a box of children's toys tucked neatly, most of the time at least, onto the bottom shelf of a bookcase, a growing DVD collection and the beginnings of what he hoped would be an equally impressive vintage film collection. And in the middle of it all, a toddler working her way through a ream of printer paper on the coffee table. She had a cot in the spare bedroom as well, and there was a highchair in the corner of the kitchen. Her bed would be delivered within the next month. He was very pleased with it - it had a canopy and fairy lights.

"Mycroft," Rudy sighed again, jerking him from his daydreams. "Isn't the whole point of you having that apartment to keep your life distinct?"

"I am simply child minding my goddaughter for my dearest friends," he explained primly. "They have an ante-natal class and no family in the city. It's practically my responsibility, as her godfather, to look after her. And may I point out, again, that I am not actually working today? You're lucky I was at home at all. If it hadn't rained, we'd be at the zoo. And then there would be elephants and all sorts listening in to our conversation."

The tension spooled out between them, whilst Bethany doodled on oblivious. She swapped colours and added green to her blue spirals. He hoped it didn't have some deep sinister meaning, but as far as he could tell it was merely the closest colour and the only sort of shape she could yet draw. Compared to adults, children were very simple, and he still hadn't the faintest idea what was going on in her head. Or his uncle's. He drew his mind back to the matter in hand again. "I'll coordinate with the prince's secretary, Uncle, you'll get more work done on the flight than you would have in the office. His Royal Highness will be returning to the UK on the evening of the funeral, but I suggest that you return the following morning. Dinner should be an enlightening affair, after all, and although it will necessitate an early start, I believe it will be more than worthwhile."

Rudy did not sound convinced, likely by the prospect of an early flight, but he didn't object. Instead, he changed the subject back to Mycroft's family life, as he so often did. "Ante-natal class, you said? When's she due?"

"Just over a month, we expect. All progressing normally, so I'm told."

"This is becoming something of a habit, boy." He could see Rudy stabbing his pipe into thin air, in the absence of Mycroft there to jab it at. "You're supposed to be above reproach."

Mycroft smiled. "And here I was, playing the part of the supportive best friend, permitting his bachelor pad to be sullied by children to help out his friends. And if I happen to dote on her, well, no one ever accused you of being my father, did they?"

In his office a few miles down the Thames, Rudy choked on his smoke. "Good grief, no."

"Then I don't see what the problem is." He took Bethany's crayon off her before she could move onto drawing on the table and handed her a yellow and a fresh piece of paper. "Our agreement was that I would maintain an impression, not that it would ever become a reality."

"You're an idiot, boy, and one day it's going to come crashing down around you." Rudy's chair scraped back loudly. "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Bright and early. I'll send the car to collect you from your apartment. Remember, caring is not an advantage."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the theatrics as the phone was slammed down and returned his full attention to his daughter. "He says that," he told her, "but he finds it convenient that I care about him, doesn't he?"

She stared up at him, then thrust a crayon in his face. He took it delicately and held it up between them. "Lavender, my dear? I hope this isn't a suggestion. I could become the first man in history to enter a same sex relationship to hide the fact that he's seeing a woman." He pulled a piece of paper closer and began sketching. "I won't, but I could. It would be quite funny. Very briefly. And then it would become a farce, and finally a disaster. Better leave things as they are, I think. Don't you?"

"Pah!" she shouted.

"I quite agree."

# # #

Mycroft sat with his back against the arm of the sofa, Carol's back against his chest and his arms around her waist, and Bethany sitting on their tangled legs. She was giggling, and thoroughly engaged in some strange game she was playing with her sibling, poking at Carol's stomach every time the baby kicked out, whilst Carol watched mostly indulgently. At one particularly sharp little stab she hissed and reached out to stroke Bethany's hair. "Careful, petal, that hurt."

She looked up with wide, worried eyes, and leaned forwards to kiss it better. "Sorry." When the baby kicked again, she stared at the movement, and rested her hand over it carefully. "Baby, no."

"It's okay, just gently," Carol told her. She tapped on the next kick herself, and when Bethany went back to their strange game, she returned her hand to Mycroft's. Their fingers laced together, and she made a happy hum at the kiss Mycroft pressed to her cheek. "How are we going to handle two of them? I think my heart is going to explode already."

"I believe most people only manage one partner, and you've coped quite adequately with two all these years," Mycroft pointed out. "I'm sure one more child won't be more than you can handle."

Carol turned her head to kiss him properly. "You," she said firmly. "Are entirely too sensible for my good." At a particularly firm kick from the baby, possibly in response to the gentler pokes from Bethany, Carol winced again. "You can tell she's mine. That's definitely football she's playing in there."

"Could be rugby." Mycroft reached down to poke gently at the protruding elbow or whatever it was, and then stroked a finger down Bethany's cheek. "It's definitely not cricket though, is it?"

Carol snorted. "Mycroft... I've got baby brain. I just said..."

"We can tell she's yours?" He chuckled and kissed her cheek again. "I wasn't going to say anything."

The front door opened, and Greg breezed in, sweeping Bethany off her feet when she scrambled down from the sofa and ran towards him. He rested her on his hip comfortably, leaned down to kiss Mycroft and Carol, and nudged them until they shifted their legs to let him sit on the other end of the sofa. "Hello gorgeous. Have you been keeping an eye on these troublemakers today?"

Bethany nodded and squirmed to get down again so she could run off and fetch her drawings, and Mycroft poked Greg with his toe. "Good day at work?"

"Yeah, actually. You were right, as usual. Wasn't expecting to see you back, though." Greg looked him up and down, presumably taking in the rolled-up shirt sleeves and Mycroft's lack of care for the creases in his clothes. "Rudy lengthened the leash a bit?"

"Alas, not so." He glanced over at the clock. "I am currently on call, should he require me. And then I have a meeting with my counterpart in a distinctly different timezone at one a.m. As I am back in the office at eight, I am supposed to be sleeping now. So I am relaxing on the sofa, if not quite sleeping."

Greg chuckled. "Doesn't look like sleeping at all to me." He helped Bethany back up and into his lap and accepted her offered gift. "This is nice, love. What is it?"

"Cat!"

Carol tilted her head. "Oh. I thought it was a map of the Indian railway network." She giggled when Mycroft squeezed her, and then let out a grunt at a particularly sharp kick. "Baby, settle down please. We are having a calm, relaxing end to the day here."

Mycroft ran a hand over her stomach. His heart thudded painfully when he felt the baby kick against his hand again, and he pressed a fierce kiss to the corner of Carol's jaw, temporarily lost for words.

# # #

Greg was getting Bethany out of her car seat when Mycroft got down to the car park to meet them, and Carol was pacing between the parked cars with her hands pressed against her back. She folded into his arms willingly and wrapped hers around his neck so she could pull him down for a kiss. "Don't look so worried," she told him, rubbing her thumb at the corner of his eye. "We'll be fine, I promise. Are you sure Rudy's okay with you taking Bethany?"

"Yes, and I don't care if he isn't." He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her again. "She's family. His bark is worse than his bite, you know that. He's a big softy, really."

He only released her when Greg rounded the car with Bethany, and only so he could take Bethany from him and pull him in for a kiss. "Call me if you need anything at all. Tea, Chinese, armed escort..."

"You know, I'm starting to believe you when you say things like that." Greg caught Carol's elbow and steered her towards the car. "Go on, get in. Just because I can deliver a baby, doesn't mean I ever want to do it again."

She rolled her eyes at Mycroft. "Honestly, you just can't rely on the police these days. It's terrible."

Mycroft kissed her once more. "Call me..."

"We will, don't worry. Give Rudy our love!"

He rolled his eyes and watched until they were on the ramp up out of the car park again before he returned to his apartment and his office. He had a highchair set up at his desk for her, ready and waiting, with a fresh ream of paper and all her crayons ready for her. She set to drawing quite happily, ignorant of his adoring gaze on her, and it was some time before he was able to drag himself away and reapply himself to his work. The day dragged on, in meetings and phone calls and making arrangements around Rudy. He had dozens of plates spinning, as always, but Mycroft no longer felt like he was scrambling to keep up. He no longer felt like Rudy thought he was scrambling to keep up, either. A satisfied smile curled his lips as he emailed off the arrangements for the weekend's summit and was immediately wiped away by the phone ringing. When he saw Rudy's name rather than Greg's, he was half tempted to bin the damn thing, but he picked it up and smoothed his own ruffled feathers before answering. "Rudy, did you get my email?"

"Yes, it's just come through. All in order." He coughed and Mycroft heard him shift. Turning his chair around to look out of the window? No, sitting back down. "How's your assistant settling in?"

He sighed. "Her minute taking needs work."

"You've not heard from Gregory yet?"

"If I had, you would know about it." Mycroft got to his feet and clamped his phone between his shoulder and his ear, so he had both hands free to lift Bethany out of her chair. She grabbed hold of his shirt and grinned up at him with those big blue eyes and reached for the phone with one hand. He got her settled in one arm and rescued the phone with his free hand so it was harder for her to reach. "I'm planning to stay in Mudchute tonight, at least. But I'll be there for tomorrow morning's meeting, there's no need to worry on that score."

Rudy laughed. "The thought hadn't crossed my mind, dear boy, I know I can rely on you. I simply wanted to check on proceedings."

"Well, I understand they are proceeding, and will of course tell you as soon as I receive news." He looked down at Bethany and stuck his tongue out at her to cheer her up, before she started really complaining about him denying her the phone. It worked, and her face split in the biggest grin he'd ever seen on a human being. "At that point I will need to take Bethany up to the hospital. However..."

"I will not expect to hear from you again until tomorrow morning," Rudy assured him, "save in absolute emergency. You've completed the file on the Japan case?"

"I... yes. It's done."

Rudy sighed. "Then for God's sake, Mycroft, send it over and log off for the day. Keep your phone on you, of course, but I can still take care of myself."

He faltered for a moment and pressed a kiss to the top of Bethany's head whilst he composed himself. "Thank you. I'll call you with news."

"You can bring it round to meet me at the weekend. Do you have a name yet?"

"Katherine Alice or Richard Thomas." He smiled weakly. "I'm looking forwards to finding out which."

"Then get off the phone," Rudy huffed at him. "I'll see you in the morning, Mycroft. Early, even if you can't manage bright."

With the distraction of work abruptly removed, the day could have dragged in painful anticipation. Thankfully Bethany quickly realised that she had, for once, her Papi's full and undivided attention, and she revelled in it. She'd gone very quickly from standing to running, rather like Sherlock had at her age, and took simple enjoyment in running from one end of the room to the other, giggling the whole way. He caught up with her when she plonked herself in front of his bookcase and started pulling the taller books off the bottom shelf. Once he'd made sure she wasn't going to pull any on top of herself, he selected a map collection, opened it on the floor in front of them and pulled her into his lap. "Now, Miss Lestrade," he told her solemnly, "you really have no choice in this matter. You are going to be a geography nerd whether you like it or not. And I suggest that you like it, because there are a lot of hiking holidays to see interesting landmarks in your future, I can assure you."

She didn't look displeased by the suggestion. In fact, she stared up at him with the biggest grin he'd ever seen and stabbed a hand towards the book. "Maps!" She shouted happily. "Maps!"  
"Ah. I see your mother has already covered this with you. Good." He cuddled her, kissed the top of her head and tried not to smile so hard it hurt. "You have probably seen this one, then, as it's her favourite. It was produced in eighteen fifteen by William Smith and goes by the very precise title of _'A Delineation of the Strata of England and Wales, with Part of Scotland; Exhibiting the Collieries and Mines, the Marshes and Fen Lands Originally Overflowed by the Sea, and the Varieties of Soil According to the Variations in the Substrata, Illustrated by the Most Descriptive Names'_. Don't worry, I do not expect you to be able to remember or pronounce the whole thing until you are at least a year older."  
Bethany leaned forwards in his arms and planted one hand over London. "There," she said firmly. "There London."

"Yes. In fact, the original of this map is here in London. Shall we go and see it when you're older? I think you'll enjoy that." He smiled down at her, she grinned up at him, and then she was off again, reaching for the page to move to the next map. Mycroft helped her, mostly by moving her off the page, and hummed contentedly. "Ah, an excellent choice. I like this one. The catchments of Britain and Ireland. Shall we see how far we could follow the Thames up from London?"

It was a pleasure, an absolute joy in fact, to spend the afternoon with her like that. She liked to hear him talk, it seemed, about anything and everything. How much she understood he had no idea, but if she was even half listening to him, she was going to end the day with a thorough understanding of cartographic history and a sound grasp of the challenges posed by millennia of building on London Clay. She never seemed to get bored of it either, just turned another page when he wound down and pointed at things until he explained them for her. If it was just the sound of his voice she wanted... guilt consumed him again when she looked up at him with those sparkling eyes so full of happiness. He could only be grateful that she at least had two parents who weren't completely hopeless and hope that she had never felt his absence as keenly as he felt hers.

"You're very easy at this age," he told her, trying to keep his sadness out of his voice. "You want very little from me, don't you? Less than anyone else in the world. Just food, shelter and a bedtime story. And all the crayons you can eat, I suppose. How long do I have before it's not enough, though?"

Bethany stared up at him, with a confused look that suggested she'd understood rather more than he'd hoped. "Why sad? Wait!" She scrambled to her feet, out of his arms, and raced off across the room. Mycroft turned to watch her, and before he could get to his feet she was back, bearing a sparkly toy cat that she thrust into his face. "Don't be sad," she told him firmly. "Lola help."

"I... thank you." He accepted Lola, and then pulled Bethany in for a hug she gave more than willingly, arms tight around his neck. Mycroft closed his eyes tightly where she couldn't see. "I'm going to do my best for you," he promised, "for both of you. It won't always be enough, but I will always try."

By the time Greg finally rang, Mycroft and Bethany were in the park just across the canal from the hospital, where he'd taken her when his nerves got so tight that even cartography couldn't keep his mind occupied. Bethany enjoyed the children's playground nearly as much as she enjoyed almost falling in the ornamental pond, and was trying to sneak up on a squirrel when Mycroft scooped her up, pressed a kiss to her cheek and settled her on his hip. "The squirrel can wait," he told her when she threatened to start sulking. "You have someone very important to meet."

Up on the ward he set her down again and let her run to the bed, where Greg helped her up and held her steady. Her eyes went very round when she saw her little sister cradled in Carol's arms, and she reached out with one finger carefully extended, then made a strangled noise of delight.

Mycroft felt the same. The ward was quiet apart from them, so he leaned in to greet Carol with a kiss and then stared down at the three of them together. He knew that Bethany had been tiny, but seeing them together now it seemed impossible that she had ever been quite that tiny. Her eyes were almost closed, sleep dragging her under, and she gave an enormous yawn, tiny fingers wrapped around one of Greg's. Unlike Bethany, Katherine already had dark hair and, Mycroft fancied, Greg's nose. He realised distantly that he'd been worried about how he would feel, if she took after Greg rather than him, as if there was ever even the slightest possibility that he wouldn't feel so full of love for her he thought he might burst. He wrapped his arm around Greg's waist whilst Bethany babbled nonsense to her baby sister, and held on for dear life.

# # #

London was beautiful by night. From Mycroft's sitting room window the city spread out as a carpet of lights that reached out towards the horizon, stretching from the bright glow of Canary Warf around him through the streaks that marked out streets, and the curve of the river spanned by bridges of light. In every direction, the warning lights of cranes and darker blurs against the skyscrapers marked the site of yet more construction in a city that had been under construction for two thousand years. As a young man he'd wondered what it would look like when it was finished, but he still remembered, vividly, the drinks reception the night the Gherkin opened, standing on the top floor and realising with a thrill that it never would be. The constant change was reassuring. And now a distraction. He caught sight of his reflection in the windows and returned his attention to the street far below him.

Somewhere behind him there was a small, unremarkable house on an unremarkable street, one house in millions with four people out of millions, and the only place in the world he truly wanted to be in that moment. He didn't miss the noise, but he hated the silence. He didn't miss being woken in the middle of the night by screams, but he missed pacing the living room with little Katie until she went back to sleep. He didn't miss the early mornings, but he missed being woken by Greg or Carol tucking Bethany into bed with them and following after her for another hour of drowsy warm comfort. He'd needed to come back to his own space, where he could focus and relax, but he needed to be there with them.

Mycroft drained the last of his whisky and set the glass aside deliberately. No one had suggested this would be easy. In fact, they'd all been aware it would be anything but. Some nights just bit harder than others.

He was still toying with the idea of ringing a taxi when his phone rang. He stared at the name in some confusion, as low as it was on the list of people he'd expected to ring him, and tried to ignore the nudge of concern as he answered. "Lady Smallwood, what can I do for you?"

 _"Mycroft, it's Rudy. He's just been taken ill,"_ she said with the sort of delicacy that meant his concern had been entirely well founded. _"The paramedics are with him already, and I've sent a car to collect you. You are at your apartment?"_

"Yes, yes." He ran a hand through his hair and grabbed onto the back of the sofa to keep standing. "I'll... be there. Which hospital?"

She paused a moment too long before she spoke. _"I'll inform the driver. Likely Royal London, but if anything changes, I'll see to it."_

Mycroft sat down heavily and reached for his shoes. "Thank you, Elizabeth."

_"I'll see you there."_

She'd barely rung off before he was dialling again, clamping the phone against his ear so he could tie his laces with shaking hands. "Gregory... I... Sorry, were you asleep?"

Greg grunted at him. Mycroft could hear him moving around, and Carol's sleepy questions, but his voice was calm and steady. _"'s fine. Are you okay?"_

"I..." He rubbed a hand over his face. "It's Rudy. He's collapsed at that party. Lady Smallwood is sending a car for me, but..."

_"Do you know which hospital he's being taken to?"_

Mycroft pressed his fingers to his lips. "I can't ask you..."

_"You didn't, and you don't need to. Which hospital?"_

"Royal London," he said quietly, as reality crystalised around him. "If anything changes, I'll let you know. Thank you."

_"I'll see you there, love. Do you want Carol to stay on the line?"_

He got to his feet and reached for his jacket at last. "No, I'd better not. Hopefully..." he swallowed hard. "I have to go; the car will be here soon."

_"Alright. Love you."_

The casual affection was almost all it took, but Mycroft held himself together until he was in the back seat of the car, with the privacy screen up and nothing to do but wait.

By the time Greg got to the hospital, it was all over. He strode through the doors into the waiting room like he had so many times before and faltered to a stop when he caught sight of Mycroft, not moving again until Mycroft finally dragged his gaze up from a point on the floor to look at him. A few strides later and he had wrapped his arms around Mycroft, who leaned into them heavily and took what felt like the first breath since Lady Smallwood had given him the news. He allowed himself to curl into Greg for a moment, pressing his forehead against Greg's shoulder, and fought down the need to break there and then. Once he'd got his breathing back under control, he managed to drag himself upright, but caught Greg's hand in his own and clung on. "Heart attack," he heard himself saying, as if hearing it from under water. "He didn't make it to the hospital."

"Oh god, Myc, I'm sorry."

He gripped Greg's hand tight enough that it hurt and was still struggling for words when the door opened again and Lady Smallwood emerged. She looked Greg over quickly as she approached them, and when Mycroft stood to greet her Greg came with him. "Mycroft." She glanced at Greg again. "And this is..."

"Apologies, Lady Smallwood. This is Detective Sergeant Lestrade."

Her eyebrows rose and she looked back at him sharply. "I realise that this is a concerning situation, but..."

"Sorry, he's on autopilot," Greg told her smoothly. He held his hand out, solid and assured as ever. "Greg, I'm Mycroft's best mate."

"Ah." Her shoulders dropped a little and she shook his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Greg, although under regrettable circumstances. I'm glad you were able to get here so quickly. It's been quite the shock for everyone."

Greg huffed. "Yeah, you could say that. We only saw him, what, last week?"

"Sunday," Mycroft agreed absently. They'd gone for dinner at his estate, eaten on the terrace whilst Bethany raced around the lawn. Rudy had fallen asleep in his chair with Katie asleep in his arms. It seemed a lifetime away now. He was aware that shock was starting to set in and pushed it back as well as he could. "I assume there will be an inquest?"

Lady Smallwood nodded sharply. "Of course. I'm afraid we'll likely rely on you heavily in the coming days, Mycroft, but I can give you tomorrow at least. Your father..."

He sucked in a sharp breath and Greg's hand in the small of his back became the only thing he could feel. He and Lady Smallwood continued talking around and over Mycroft, and then Greg was steering him out of the hospital and into his car, where he slid a CD in before setting off. The first bar of the Lark Ascending soared through the car and Mycroft reached out to stab the eject button, switching it for a more familiar one. Starship took over, Greg's hand dropped to Mycroft's thigh and his thumb rubbed up it in gentle comfort. "Your place or ours?"

"Ours," Mycroft said quietly. He watched Greg's hand absently, the way his fingers curled around the gear lever and splayed whilst he waited, the smooth, confident movements. He envied them, in a distant and hurting sort of way.

He managed to stop thinking almost completely until they were home. The click of the door locking behind them sounded loud in the stillness of the night, and he drew in a ragged breath when Greg stood in front of him and reached out to remove his cufflinks. "Door locked, curtains drawn," Greg said quietly. "The world outside can go to hell for now. What do you need?"

"I just need..." He bought time by unfastening his jacket and waistcoat with trembling fingers, grateful when Greg helped him with them and took them to lay them carefully over a chair. He was still no closer to knowing what he needed when Greg wrapped him tight in his arms, and Mycroft's hands rose of their own accord to cling to the back of his T shirt. "I don't understand," he admitted. "How can he be..."

His throat closed up and his eyes burned. Greg's hand on the back of his neck tugged him closer. "I've got you," Greg promised. "I've always got you."

In the secret darkness, Mycroft wept.

# # #

James was on duty in the reception when Mycroft and Carol got back to his apartment building, and he greeted them with a bright smile that became incandescent when he saw the Moses basket Mycroft was carrying. He hurried out from behind the desk to peer into it, and Mycroft was grateful that his attention was so thoroughly distracted. "Oh, look at her!" he cooed. "Isn't she precious? How old is she now?"

"Five weeks tomorrow."

"Blimey, is it really that long since you were here last?" He straightened up and made for his desk, and Bethany, knowing what was coming, squirmed until Mycroft put her down and she could run after him to accept her Werther's Original. "You'd better have two, Miss Bethany, since it's been so long."

She grinned up at him and immediately wrapped her arms around Mycroft's leg again. "Thank you!"

He smiled back at her easily, but his eyes settled on Mycroft's face with a knowing look. "Everything alright, Mr Holmes?"

"Not... entirely," he admitted. Bethany was staring up at him, so he distracted her by unwrapping one of the sweets for her. "We had a... bereavement last night. My uncle..."

"Oh no, not Rudolph?" James reached out and gripped Mycroft's hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr Holmes. He was a proper gent was your uncle. You don't see many of his sort these days."

"Thank you." He floundered for a second, trying to line up the moving parts he needed in place whilst his world kept shifting around him. "We'll have visitors through the day, I suspect. My parents are on their way, and my brother. If they come..."

James nodded. "I'll send them right up, Mr Holmes. Anyone else, you want me to ring through to you?"

"Yes, at least let me know they're coming please. There might be... officials," he said delicately. "It was..."

Mycroft stuttered to a halt again, and Carol stepped in to take over from him. "It was such a shock," she said gently. "And he did some government work, so they'll have to make sure... well, you know. Just procedure, you know how it is."

"I do indeed. I'll make sure Brendan knows after me, and we'll let you know if anyone arrives. I'll warn you about Sherlock, too. God knows, he can be a handful enough at the best of times." He stepped back behind his desk and let them go. "And if you need anything at all, you give us a call, alright? Whatever you need."

"You're a diamond, James."

Mycroft swept Bethany up into his arms again, and then let Carol steer him through the lobby and into the lift. She dealt with the security as well, and the kettle, and the radio, and let Mycroft sink into an armchair with his head in his hands. Bethany ran off to her atlases again, and next to him Katherine grumbled at being woken by all the movement. He lifted her carefully from her Moses basket, and his eyes burned with tears when she gave an almighty yawn and wrapped her tiny fingers around one of his.

"Here, love." Carol set a cup of tea down on the table next to him and sat down beside him with her own. "Whatever you need, you just do it, alright? Or if you need me, tell me. Don't..."

"I know." He didn't hand a hand free to reach out to her, so he just stared down at Katherine and swallowed until he could speak again. "My parents will be here soon. I... don't remember when they left."

She got to her feet again and stopped in front of him, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pressing her lips to his forehead. "I'll make the spare rooms up, then it's done. Sherlock's coming by train, he'll be here about eleven. Your parents expected to be here about ten. It's nine thirty now, so we have half an hour before they arrive. Lady Smallwood is going to ring you after lunch, she didn't specify a time. I'll pop to the shops once your parents and Sherlock are settled to get something in for lunch, but I'll have to feed Katie first, then she should sleep through."

He took none of that in, apart from the steady reassurance that someone knew what was going on and, for once in his life, it didn't have to be him. He lifted his head and actually managed a smile when she correctly interpreted his request and dipped her head again to brush her lips against his. "What would I do without you?"

"You'd cope," she told him, running her fingers under his chin. "But I'm going to make sure you don't have to. I love you."

His heart lurched again. "I love you too," he whispered.

"Good." She dropped her hand and looked down at the pair of them. "Are you going to be okay there? I'll clear Bethy's things out of the smaller bedroom into ours, but we'll work the rest of it out later. As long as your parents and Sherlock have somewhere to sleep."

"We'll be fine. Bethany can educate us on the major river systems of Europe, can't you dear?"

She looked up, aware that she was being talked about, and grinned at him. "Yep!"

"Alright. Yell if you need me, darling."

He was feeling a little more settled by the time the doorbell rang, although already wishing they'd stayed at the house in Mudchute rather than coming to his apartment. It felt smaller somehow, cluttered with two children and two and a half adults as it was, but it was infinitely more reassuring. But the idea of having his mother on Carol's patch was nevertheless daunting. He settled Katherine back into her Moses basket and went to get the door. Mummy and Sigur were surrounded by overnight bags, it looked like they'd packed everything they thought they could possibly need and had the same baffled looks on their faces that he felt. She took one look at his face and wrapped him in her arms. "Oh Mikey," she murmured. "I can't believe it."

A hug from Mummy had been expected. The fact that his father gave him one, there in the doorway, was rather more of a surprise. He returned it, tentatively at first, and his eyes stung when Sigur's breath shook on a sigh. "I'm sorry," he murmured, not sure what he was sorry for. "It's just so..."

"I know. I thought he'd go on forever."

They stepped back and Mycroft swept up a couple of the bags, then stepped aside to let them into the apartment. "Come in. Tea?" He led them in, dropped the bags against the kitchen wall, and made straight for the kettle. "It's just boiled."

He turned back to face them, and his mouth snapped shut at the look on his mother's face. She looked back over her shoulder again, then hurried across the kitchen to grab his elbow. "Mycroft, what is she doing here?" she hissed.

It took him a moment for realisation to dawn, a sure sign that the day was already trying. This was more than he was willing or able to handle, so he pulled his arm back and glared her down. "She's here to look after me," he snapped back. "As she always is. That is not up for debate."

Mummy looked like she had more to say, but at that moment Katherine made her presence known and Carol's lilting sing-song drifted through from the living room. Sigur stepped in between them, gave his wife a loaded look, and reached for the tea pot. "Tea sounds like a good idea," he said quietly. "Anything I can do to help?"

They returned to the living room, which was devoid of both Katherine and her mother, and Mycroft set the tea things down on the coffee table whilst his parents arranged themselves on the sofa. Bethany looked up from where she was sprawled on the floor. She scrambled to her feet when Mycroft looked over at her, and raced over to wrap herself around his leg again. "This is Bethany Rebecca Lestrade. Bethany, this is my parents, Sigur and Matilda Holmes."

She stared up at him, then at them, then stuck her thumb in her mouth. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "She's not normally this quiet."

"New people," Sigur suggested. "Always a bit scary, isn't it?"

Mycroft laughed. "That doesn't normally stop her. Bethany, are you going to say hello?"

She rested her head against his leg, then took her thumb out of her mouth and stepped forwards to offer a hand for Sigur to shake. He did so delicately, and smiled down at her. "It's lovely to meet you, Bethany."

She looked at them a little longer then ran off back to her books, picked up the lightest one, and ran back to the sofa, where she handed him the book and scrambled up between them. "Look," she said, pointing at the open page. "That's the Thames," she said. "It goes all the way up here..." She stabbed the map. "There."

"I should..." Mycroft began, stepping forwards to take her, but his father was having none of it.

He just smiled up at Mycroft and returned his attention to Bethany and her maps. "That's the Thames, is it? Do you know how many rivers feed into the Thames?"

"Yes! Lots and lots." She was off at full speed, so Mycroft backed away with some strangled excuse about going to find Carol and fled.

Carol was in the bedroom, breastfeeding a somewhat grumpy Katherine, and looked up guiltily the moment he entered. "I'm sorry, love. I didn't think your mum would appreciate finding me doing this in the living room."

"My mother," he told her, punctuating it with a kiss, "can appreciate what she likes. But it's alright. Bethany seems to be breaking the ice quite happily."

"Good. Are you sure you want us here, though? We can..."

He raised an eyebrow. "I want you here considerably more than I want my mother here."

"Well, then I'll leave them to you and Bethy for now." Carol cupped his cheek in one hand. "Whatever you need, love, I mean it."

Mycroft kissed the palm of her hand, braced himself, and returned to his parents and Bethany in the living room. Mummy was sitting a little further away from Bethany and Sigur. Mycroft had a moment of worry, until he rounded the sofa and saw the stack of atlases between them and Bethany showing Sigur around her favourite. He paused to watch them, heart aching with fondness. Mummy looked up and managed a tremulous smile. “She reminds me so much of you at that age,” she said fondly. “Except with you it was fossils.”

He spared her a disbelieving glance. “Was I really ever that…”

“Talkative?” Mummy suggested when he tailed off.

Mycroft shrugged helplessly. “Actually, I was going to say happy.”

“Oh yes.” Her eyes lit up with a familiar sadness. “You were such a happy baby, and always so curious. Not for maps, though. That came later, I think. It was fossils first, wasn’t it? Then dinosaurs.”

“Was he that ginger?” Carol asked from the doorway. She had Katherine tucked against her shoulder and grumbling sleepily, and couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from Mycroft. He ran a hand through his hair as if that would hide it. “I bet you were, weren’t you?” she teased.

Sigur laughed. “Oh yes. Until he was about ten. He gets that from Tilly’s side.”

“Bethy never stood a chance, did she?” She dragged her gaze over to Bethany, who was staring up at them, well aware she was being talked about. “Yes, you little princess. Because I was so ginger all through my childhood. Did it the wrong way around, didn’t I? Ginger through school then started going blonde when I was old enough to appreciate it. It bleached out fully in Australia.”

He smiled. “Oh, you must have been precious.”

The doorbell interrupted them again, and Mycroft realised with a slowly dawning horror that this time it was Sherlock. He braced himself with a deep breath and one desperate look at Carol, then forced himself to the door. His one comfort came from the fact that Sherlock looked every inch as awkward as Mycroft felt. It was a small crumb in the face of the sudden reminder of why they were there. “Come in,” he said, gesturing through the hall. “We’re in the sitting room.”

“Right. I…” Sherlock looked him up and down and then again for good measure, and thus they were both caught in the hall by Mummy, who wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug. He looked at Mycroft desperately. “Mummy...”

“Sherlock.” She stepped back to look at him, holding him in place with her hands on her shoulders again. “Are you eating enough? You’re as thin as a rake again.”

He scoffed at her and glared when Mycroft chuckled. “Really? Now?”

“As soon as you arrive, as always. How long are you staying? We’ll feed you up. Come on through, we’re in the sitting room with Bethany and Carol. Tea, dear? Or coffee?”

Sherlock scowled, but it vanished when he spotted Bethany peering over the back of the sofa. “There’s a small child…”

“Yes, dear, she’s Mycroft’s. This is Bethany.”

“We’ve met.” He gestured over at Carol and Katherine. “Although she was about that size when we did. She’s grown. Does she speak?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “She rarely stops. Clearly you have some sort of magical effect on children. Do sit down, brother dear.”

He did not sit down, and he and Bethany continued staring at each other whilst the adults in the room arranged themselves, which ended with Carol passing Katherine to Mummy and easing past Mycroft towards the kitchen. “Go on,” she told him, leaning up for a kiss. “I’ll do another round of teas.”

“You’re a wonder.”

“So you keep telling me.”

Bethany had found her voice at last and was asking Sherlock what he knew about rivers. By the time Carol returned with the tea tray, he’d been dragged into the Geography lesson on the larger sofa, Mummy had Katherine in the armchair, and Carol took the spare seat on the two-seater with Mycroft. In any other circumstances, it would have been almost pleasant. In any other circumstances, it would never have happened. Carol’s hand slipped into his and he clung on.

The conversation wandered around the elephant in the room, circumventing it but never quite reaching it. He’d almost got a handle on it when his phone rang, and every head bar Katherine’s turned towards it. His resolve almost shattered when Bethany’s face lit up and she asked, “Rudy?”

He got to his feet, grateful for Carol’s hand brushing down his back. “Work,” he said, voice strangled. “I apologise, but I’ll have to take it.” He fled the room before any of them could reply and retreated to the bedroom, where he sat on the edge of the bed and had to ring Lady Smallwood back.

She brushed away his apologies with apologies of her own. _“I promised you today, Mycroft. I’m so sorry, I wouldn’t call if it weren’t urgent.”_

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her. “I know how it can be.”

_“I know you do, but it’s still not on. How are you bearing up?”_

He hadn’t really thought about it, and would rather she hadn’t asked him to. “I don’t know yet,” he told her honestly. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”

_“No, well, sometimes it doesn’t. It was so sudden. We’re all going to miss him. Friday evenings will never be the same.”_

Mycroft managed a strangled laugh at that. “A lot of things aren’t going to be the same.” He ran a hand through his hair again and sighed. “Apologies, Lady Smallwood. Was there something you needed from me?”

_“Yes, sorry. I’ll let you get back to your family soon. It’s this summit coming up. Obviously it can’t be rearranged, and you know Rudy’s brief better than anyone. Would you be able to dial in tomorrow for a couple of hours at least?”_

He looked over at the bedroom door, towards the faint sound of voices from the sitting room. “I have rather the houseful, including a toddler and a newborn,” he told her ruefully. “It’ll be easier if I come in to the office.”

_“Mycroft… are you sure?”_

“Absolutely. Better to keep busy, after all.” He rubbed at his eyebrow absently. “Eight thirty early enough?”

_“Plenty. I’ll have a car sent for you at eight. Thank you, Mycroft.”_

Arrangements in place, Mycroft hung up and drifted back through to join the rest. He resumed his seat with Carol in the middle of one of her stories about her family. “Turns out that a honeymooning couple turning up on your doorstep looking for your husband is not the best way to find out you have a step-daughter,” she was saying, with a chagrined grin. “Who knew? My brothers actually speak Zulu as their first language, which is pretty cool. Their English is far better than my Zulu, of course. And Mycroft had no problem.”

Mummy looked over at him in surprise. “You’ve met Carol’s brothers?”

“Yes, they came over for the cricket in 2003. Even Carol deigned to join us for that. She’s not…” He stuttered to a halt as his brain checked in on reality again. “We have tickets for the Oval,” he said vaguely. “Next week. Day five, behind the bowler's arm.”

Carol’s hand was tight in his in an instant. “Myc…”

“He’ll never know, will he? It’s all to play for still, he won’t know who won.” Grief slammed into him again and he staggered to his feet. “Excuse me.”

She was there at his side immediately, and tugged him into the kitchen. Her hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing tears away. “You’re okay,” she promised him. “I’ve got you, yeah?” Then her arms wrapped around him and he buried his face in her shoulder, clinging to the back of her blouse. “I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry.”

“I just can’t believe he’s…” He swallowed hard. It felt like swallowing knives. “How can he be gone?”

The afternoon passed in a blur, between stilted conversations about Rudy, easier ones about Bethany and Katherine, and too many phone calls as the news began to filter through the diplomatic and security corps. The police came round - not Greg's station, alas, because the case had been left in the hands of the City of London police - and assured them all that it was simply routine, as if that weren't obvious from the fact that it had been left to such a minor team to complete the paperwork. Greg got back just before five, warm eyes worried, and whilst he was in the shower Carol took Mycroft's phone from him and locked it in a drawer in the bedroom. He glared at her but didn't object, or want to. When Bethany had eaten and finally agreed to be put to bed she demanded that Mycroft do the bedtime stories, and by that stage he felt comfortable enough leaving Carol and Greg with his parents and even Sherlock, whose sharp glances between them had died down at last, to indulge her. The hardest part of a difficult day was untangling her from where she'd fallen asleep against his chest and tucking her back into bed, and then forcing himself to leave the room.

Greg was regaling Mycroft's parents with the tale of one notorious day at Lord's the previous summer. Blazing sunshine, the Barmy Army in full voice, and centuries from three of England's top order, and champagne flowing freely as it only did around Rudy. He'd slept through most of the session after tea, snoring into his fedora, and spent the rest of the week sunburned, irritable and glued to the radio, leaving most of his work to Mycroft again. England had won handily in the end, and Rudy had taken the three of them out for curry to celebrate, mostly because he enjoyed the baffled look on Carol's face when Greg had one too many beers and tried, again, to explain the art of spin bowling to her. It seemed a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago.

Mummy sipped at her gin and eyed Mycroft over the top of it, then turned back to Greg. "I didn't realise you two knew Rudy so well, dear. It seems like you were very close."

"Yeah, well, with our families scattered to the winds," he said, glancing across Mycroft to Carol, "he sort of took us under his wing, didn't he? Probably an excuse to keep an eye on Mycroft, but he looked after us."

"He doted on Bethany," Carol said softly. Her hand tightened in Mycroft's and she had to pause to steady her voice. "Oh he blustered, but he'd let her get away with murder."

Sigur smiled back. "She has that ability, doesn't she? Is there anyone she doesn't have wrapped around her little finger?"

"No, she is quite the charmer when she wants to be." She looked down at Katherine, who was wide-eyed but content in her Moses basket, and grinned down at her. "You're going to be the same, aren't you? Look at those eyelashes already."

Greg laughed. "They take after their mum. Remember Jo'burg?" The hall phone rang at that moment, putting an end to the Johannesburg story before it had begun, and he got to his feet. "That'll be dinner."

They'd ordered Chinese, and Greg going to collect it meant that at least Mycroft didn't have to deal with Brendan's sympathy as well. He and Carol sorted the dining table out between them, and soon the six of them were settled down again. The conversation lapsed whilst Mummy and Sigur had another of their silent conversations, until Sigur looked over at Mycroft. “I was thinking about… what you said about the cricket. And, well, I wondered if you’d mind, or like it even, if I came with you? For Day Five. Of course it might come to nothing, we might win by close of play on day four, but I just thought it would be nice to spend the day with the pair of you.”

“Drink a toast to Rudy, perhaps,” Mycroft suggested. He glanced at Greg, who put the ball straight back in his court with a minute shrug, and nodded thoughtfully. “That would be… yes, that would be nice.”

“Excellent. And Mummy could come and spend the day with Carol, help with the girls.”

Mummy nodded. “You’ll have your hands full with them, I know. At least mine were spaced out,” she said, pointing her knife at Mycroft and Sherlock in turn, whilst they tried to work out if they should be offended. “I can’t promise a relaxing girly day. We’ll have to leave them with the boys for that, turn and turnabout. We could take them to the zoo, though.”

Greg snorted. “How do you feel about penguins?”

“Penguins?”

“Bethany likes penguins,” Carol told them, eyes on her plate and trying not to grin. “Bethany likes penguins the way only a toddler can.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Bethany likes penguins the way Sherlock liked pirates.”

He protested, but Mummy ignored him. “Sherlock wanted to be a pirate.”

“Quite so,” Mycroft agreed.

Carol turned to him, eyes soft. “I felt like such a bitch when I told her she couldn’t become a penguin when she grows up.”

“She cried for hours,” Greg explained. “Face down on the carpet, proper toddler tantrum. We’ve never seen one like it from her.”

“And when she was done, she just told me I was wrong.” Carol shook her head and reached for her wine glass, then swirled it in her fingers whilst she chuckled. “I am going to be a penguin! I need to go and practice.”

Mycroft laughed. “Oh yes. And then next time we took her, she started trying to waddle like them. Until she fell over and skinned her knee.”

“And you had to kiss it better and convince her to practice at home on the carpet. And then buy her that ridiculous stuffed penguin,” she added with a slight, fond note of censure. “She’s getting spoiled.”

Greg laughed. “We were going to adopt a penguin for her birthday, but we think she’d try to take it home. Maybe we’ll get her one in the Arctic. Antarctic, whatever.”

Mummy smiled. "So it's settled, then? Sherlock..."

"I'll come to the zoo," he said quickly. "It sounds like fun. A day out with my nieces."

Carol caught Mycroft's eye, and he just about managed to restrain both a shudder and the inexplicable laughter that tried to escape him. Instead he rubbed at his eyebrow and nodded. "I'm sure she'll love that. Just be sure you've brushed up on your penguins, or you'll never hear the end of it."

# # #

There was a frankly alarming amount of paperwork involved in dealing with an unexpected death. The coroner's report was returned quickly, accelerated by concerned figures within the government, but presented a tragically mundane occurrence. Natural causes. Perhaps there had been opportunities, or signs that went ignored out of some sense of stubbornness or the Holmesian belief in personal infallibility but... These things happened. Life, somehow, had to go on without him.

The funeral was on day four of the test match. On day five England won back the Ashes, and Mycroft and Sigur both drank too much. The following Monday, Mycroft went back to work. In the blink of an eye another two weeks had passed and October had arrived.

Mycroft turned another page of the will and paused as he heard a key turn in the lock at the exact same moment. Before the door had opened more than an inch he'd identified it as Greg, on his own and bearing shopping that Carol had probably sent him with. The thought still warmed him deeply. "Good evening, Detective Sergeant," he called. "How was work?"

"One day I'll actually get my head around how you do that. And then I might make it past sergeant." Greg dropped the shopping bags on the work surface and sauntered across to the table to greet Mycroft with a lingering kiss. "Hey gorgeous."

He smiled up at him fondly. "You need to trust your instincts more. Security didn't ring me, which means it's someone known to them and to me. You have a key, which narrows it down to you, Carol and a few others. I could eliminate most of the others, but of the short list it was most likely to be you on your way home from work."

"Hmm. Have you worked out that I've been sent to collect you for dinner, too?" He sighed when Mycroft looked away a little too quickly and rested his hands on his shoulders. "Even if I promise not to let herself near the kitchen?"

He tutted. "Gregory. She hasn't burned anything in years."

"Still made you smile." His thumbs rubbed over Mycroft's shoulders and he ducked his head to look him in the eye again. "You know I'll drop it if you tell me you don't want to or aren't feeling up to it, and I know you don't want to lie to me. What can I do, love?"

Mycroft sighed. "Tea? Always the best place to start, I find." He got to his feet and brushed past Greg gently, and put together their drinks without thinking about it. A rich oolong with deep chocolate notes, extra sugar for Greg, extra milk for his own, his poured a little before Greg's so it didn't steep for as long. He felt Greg's eyes on him the whole time. "It has been a very busy few weeks," he said eventually. "And momentous. I have been offered Rudy's position. More than one of them, actually."

"That's great! Isn't it?"

He passed Greg his cup and sat down at the table, somehow relieved when Greg followed him. "I don't know. I couldn't imagine working for anyone else after Rudy, certainly. But it's not an insignificant position."

Greg wrapped both hands around his cup. "You mean the sort of position where they run background checks on everyone who smiles at you on the tube?"

"And where every point of weakness is seen as leverage." Mycroft gestured at Rudy's will, still spread out on the table between them. "He named me his executor, damnable man. Although I suppose he didn't expect me to have to deal with it just yet. I always knew about his life partner, Charles. He died when I was at Westminster, and so I saw a lot of him. He taught me to play Chess, or at least to play it well. But it was never acknowledged, even between us, that Charles was any more to him than a close friend. They didn't live together until Charles's illness, and even then it was cloaked as a temporary arrangement."

"How long were they together?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I tried to speak to him once or twice, but he would never be drawn. I think he feared that I was following in his path in a way." His eyes dropped to the will. "He has left instructions for a chess table to be placed in Green Park, where they always met for lunch. I believe the memorandum was added soon after Charles died, if not before. And he has left specific gifts for you and Carol, Bethany and even Katherine. Likely as soon as I told him her name."

Greg smiled sadly. "So he did approve in the end? Or just accepted us?"

"I really don't know what to make of it," he admitted. "It is a not inconsiderable gift. He has, in fact, left you the house in Mudchute. There is some paperwork to complete, but..."

"Bloody hell." Greg rubbed at his face. "You're not kidding."

"Quite. I am relieved he took the decision from my hands, I must admit. And in typical Rudy fashion, his gifts to Bethany and Katherine are to be kept in trust, and are partially dependent upon them achieving a first in an undergraduate degree, having a book or symphony published, or completing a round-the-world trip comprising no fewer than twenty countries." He managed a smile when Greg laughed, and shook his head fondly. "He will still be organising their lives in twenty years."

"Yup, that's Rudy." Greg reached across the table and took Mycroft's hand. He rubbed his thumb over the back of his fingers. "And what about your life now?"

He shrugged again, helpless. It was such a huge question he hardly knew where to start. Rudy had presented him with everything as a fait accompli for most of his life; he'd arranged his school place, introduced him to his tutor at Oxford, employed him straight out of university, arranged apartments for him, then for Greg and Carol. And yet in all that time, his love life had been the only point on which they truly disagreed, and he had ceded to Mycroft. Now his path lay clear before him again, and he couldn't tell whether he was facing it because he wanted it or because it was there. "It's everything I've been working towards, my entire life," he mused. "And I don't know that anyone else could do it."

"Do you want it?"

"What I want seems immaterial."

Greg scowled. "Well it isn't to me."  
"I know." Mycroft squeezed his hand, then lifted it to his lips to kiss it. "I love you. What I want is, in fact, to pick up a Chinese on the way back to your house, and not make any further decisions until Sunday morning at the very earliest."  
"I think we can manage that." Greg finished his tea off and got to his feet. "Am I allowed to ask if you want chicken or prawns, though?"

"How do you swing so rapidly from the love of my life to the most irritating person I know?" Mycroft sighed whilst Greg laughed at him. "Well, if you really insist, I suppose it'll have to be chicken."

Greg caught him, pulled him in and kissed him again. "I'll ring the Jade Garden, you ring the boss. And I promise, no more decisions."

Mycroft smiled against his lips. "Hmm. What would I do without you?"

"Know what? You're never going to find out. You're stuck with all four of us."

# # #

Saturday morning was a precious and treasured institution. Mycroft woke slowly, awareness drifting in languidly. There was birdsong and the rumble of traffic outside, a stiff breeze through the trees that carried the smells of the city, the river and the distant threat of rain. Inside the house, all was quiet for now. Bethany had scrambled into bed with them after Katherine's last feed, and now sprawled like a starfish between her dads, wild ginger curls spread across the pillow as a halo. She'd pushed Greg right to the edge of the bed, where he'd rolled onto his side facing them, face still slack with sleep and half-buried in the pillow. On Mycroft's other side, Carol rolled over and pressed herself against him, one hand slipping up under his T shirt with a contented hum. "Morning gorgeous," she murmured against his shoulder. "Time's it?"

"Just past seven." Mycroft's eyes slid closed again and a slow smile curled his lips when Carol yawned and shuffled closer. "Our little alarm clock has not gone off yet."

"Mmm, is that what we're calling her this morning?" She sighed heavily, tucking her face in against his neck. "Mini hellbeast is what she is."

Mycroft hummed contentedly and worked his arm free from where she'd trapped it against his side, until he could wrap it around her and pull her closer and hide his smile against the crown of her head. Her hand slid up over his chest and one leg slung over his, pinning him in place. Not that he had a problem with that. The quiet hours stretched out ahead of them until the mini hellbeast woke and demanded everyone's attention again. Wrapped up against him, Carol yawned again and burrowed somehow deeper under the duvet. "Love you. Weekends are the best."

His heart clenched at the reminder, even as the blissful lethargy tugged him back towards sleep. "I love you too. I'm sorry I can't give you more."

Carol didn't reply for a while, and he couldn't see her expression where she'd tucked her head under his chin. Her hand drifted down to his side and settled at last, then she let out another deep sigh. "Me too, love. I worry about you."

He swallowed back the overwhelming emotions. "I always know where you are, my love. And people bear far worse separations than ours."

"As long as you're alright." She propped herself up again and looked past him at Greg and Bethany. "It's alright for some, isn't it?"

Mycroft chuckled. "Enjoy the peace while it lasts."

The peace was abruptly shattered by the doorbell, and Bethany bolted awake immediately. She stared at the door with an intense expression, and then bolted for it so quickly that Carol only just caught her before she was out on the landing. "Hey, monster, careful on the stairs."

Bethany lifted her hands to demand that Carol pick her up and, as soon as she was safely settled, pointed at the door again. "There's someone at the door, Mummy."

"Yes, monster, I know." Carol rolled her eyes at Mycroft. "Probably the post. We'll be back soon, don't get up."

That was the sort of direct instruction that Mcyroft was more than happy to follow. Many of Carol's were. He eased back into the pillows and turned his head to the side to find Greg still on the very edge of the bed but awake and smiling back at him sleepily. They shifted towards the centre of the bed, drawn together by a familiar gravity, and Mycroft let out a soft hum of quiet contentment when Greg reached out and trailed the backs of his fingers down Mycroft's cheek. His thumb brushed against the corner of Mycroft's lips and up over his cheekbone, eyes following its progress. The urge to flinch away from the intense contemplation had dulled over the years, and Mycroft enjoyed the opportunity to watch Greg in return. His dark hair was scattered with grey already, a change he blamed firmly on Bethany's love of heights, and the laughter lines at the corner of his eyes were well-defined by the years. Seven years since that fateful New Year's Eve in Westminster, thirteen since he first sat in Hargreaves's classroom and fell under Carol's spell, and soon after fell under Greg's equally. Had he known then what he knew now... He smiled against Greg's thumb and turned just enough to kiss the backs of his fingers.

They were disturbed by familiar footsteps on the stairs, and turned to face the door before Carol poked her head around, wryly amused and frustrated all at once. "Not the postman," she told them. "Mycroft... your brother is in the kitchen."

Mycroft sat up immediately. "What is he doing down there?"

"Boiling eggs. Bethy decided she wanted soldiers for breakfast and I thought it'd keep the pair of them quiet for a bit." When Mycroft fixed her with an unamused glare she grinned back at him. "Beyond that, not a clue. He just asked if you were in, and I wasn't about to leave him on the doorstep."

He groaned and rubbed at his forehead. "I wish you had. Fine." Throwing back the covers, he got out of bed and accepted the pair of jeans she offered him. "Which of them do you think will start crying first?"

She swatted him gently and pulled her T shirt off. "Behave. He's not that bad."

"He's worse." Jeans and a shirt that was less obviously Greg's wasn't his idea of dressed but it was at least better, so he left Greg and Carol to it and padded downstairs as quietly as he could. Never quietly enough, of course, and both Bethany and Sherlock were watching the doorway when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Bethany scrambled down from her chair and hurtled towards him, arms outstretched for a pick-up, and he lifted her to his hip automatically.

Sherlock's gaze flickered over the pair of them before he turned back to the eggs boiling on the stove and the 35 seconds left on the timer. "Good morning, Mycroft. Sorry for waking you so early. I got an earlier train than I was expecting."

"A very early train, apparently," Mycroft observed. "Sherlock, it's not even half past seven yet."

"I know. Oh, wait..." With exaggerated care, Sherlock lifted the eggs out of the pan and dropped them into a bowl of iced water. After another few seconds he transferred them into egg cups and placed them on the table. "There. I'll let you deal with the rest."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but as Bethany was squirming to be let down again, he settled her at the table and took the tops off the eggs for her. "Not that I am not delighted to see you, brother mine, but why and indeed how are you here?"

"Ah, the address?" Sherlock leaned back on the kitchen counter, brushed his long curls out of his face again, and looked up at the ceiling. "Obviously I went to your apartment first. The receptionist was very helpful, though, and warned me before I went up that you weren't home. She arranged me a taxi to come round here, and had my bags taken up to your apartment. Of course I didn't know the number precisely, but she was able to give the driver the street and it wasn't hard to deduce which house was the right one. The birthday cards on the living room windowsill are obviously Lestrade’s, and the toy cat is obviously not. I thought small children were normally awake earlier than this."

Mycroft ran his fingers through Bethany's hair and glared down at her fondly. "She was up an hour or so ago with Katherine, but consented to go back to sleep for a while longer."

"Then park later?" Bethany asked cheerfully. "I want to go on the big slide."

It was a welcome and timely reminder that Sherlock did, in fact, have more emotional maturity than a very-nearly-two-year-old. "Of course. If the weather stays fair."

"Okay!"

He was, however, more work than a very-nearly-two-year-old. Mycroft looked up at his brother again with an expression that he hoped brooked no tomfoolery. "You didn't say why you are here, though. And so early in the morning at that."

Sherlock met his gaze full on. "I'm here to look after you, of course."

That was so unexpected that Mycroft was stunned into silence for a moment. "Look after me?" he spluttered. "What on earth makes you think I need looking after?"

He scoffed. "Isn't that obvious? You were clearly close to Rudy, and his death has hit you hard. The business of taking care of his estate and stepping into his sizeable shoes at work has kept you busy enough to be distracted from that for now. In the meantime, you are, as ever, choosing the path of least resistance and accepting the plan he laid out for you."

"That's preposterous."

"Is it?" Sherlock sighed heavily. "Let's see. His succession plans at work were that you would step in to replace him temporarily, and in the long term the logical solution will be for you to take on the role permanently. They've offered you the position already, and clearly you intend to take it."

"Clearly?"

"Obviously. That leaves you with a problem here, of course. Your somewhat unorthodox family structure would cause gossip, but nothing major in this day and age." he smiled grimly. "How things have changed since Rudy's day. However, they are still vulnerable as a potential target for leverage, and not one you can protect through the traditional structures, not without asking Lestrade to give up on his career, which you have no intention of doing. You are, however, godfather to dear Bethany in addition to being her biological father, and Rudy has left you the estate. No one would question you inviting your close friends and your goddaughters to stay with you for weekends at the estate, and there you are sufficiently remote that the precise sleeping arrangements can pass unnoticed."

Mycroft seethed, but he was aware of Bethany looking up at him and forced himself to relax outwardly, at least. "And I assume you have objections to that course of action?"

"Hardly. The only alternative that I can see is you training me as your replacement, which neither of us wants, nor the country for that matter." He dropped into a chair and stretched his legs out. "No, I'm just going to keep an eye on you and make sure you stick to it. Can't let it slip again."

He was so distracted by the gargantuan hypocrisy of that comment that he hadn't found an answer he could say in front of Bethany by the time Greg joined them in the kitchen, tousle-headed and wary. "Morning Sherlock. Alright down here?"

"Fine," Mycroft assured him, and now Greg was here he almost believed it. "Sherlock was just offering a critique of my life choices recently."

Greg grunted. "He's not alone in that, love. I've told him," he said to Sherlock, "it's what he wants that matters, not what the government wants. I know it's never that simple, but you've got to consider it."

"Well then it is fortunate that both the government and I can have what we want."

"Right. Good. Coffee?"

Carol followed him into the kitchen at that moment and handed Katherine, who was now wide awake and staring, to Mycroft as she passed him. "God yes. Oh good, you got Bethy sorted. Thanks for keeping an eye on the eggs, Sherlock. How many for toast?"

He felt his anger melt away into a far more familiar sense of contentment that only deepened when he looked back at Sherlock and saw his expression of bewildered and grudging admiration. "Sherlock," he said softly, dragging his attention from Carol and Greg bumping each other out of the way at the sink. "I appreciate your concern, and you are more than welcome to stay with me for as long as you like. But as you can see, I am already very well looked after."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning this chapter for character death (not one of the three)


	9. Chapter 9

The sun was rising over Washington DC as Mycroft settled down on the balcony of his hotel room with a very strong black coffee, and already the morning was deliciously warm. Before long it would start to become uncomfortable, but for not it was a comfortable temperature to be outside. He sipped at his coffee whilst he waited for Skype to connect and let his eyes drift over the capital's skyline. Two months to the election, and then it would be over at last. The longest six months of his life. The cheerful jingle of the call connecting chimed out at last and he felt his melancholy swept away in an instant by two grinning faces crowding the camera. "Good morning, girls. Happy Birthday, Katherine my dear." He hugged the mug to his chest. "Are you having a good day?"

They both started speaking at once, as usual, and Greg's hand dropped onto Bethany's head. "Bethy, it's Katy's birthday, let her go first this time alright?"

She pouted but complied, scrambling up into Greg's lap in the background whilst Katherine leaned in to take over the screen. Her familiar grin split her face. "Papi! We went to the zoo and Mummy got me a ring with a fish on it and she says we can have ice cream tonight because it's my birthday and tomorrow Nana and Grampa are coming so we can go to Legoland!"

"Really? Can I see your ring?"

She held it up proudly to show him and pointed at it. "Look. It's a nemo fish. They live in nemonies and they hide and when other fish come to eat them they get killed by the nemonies and the fish are safe."

"A nemo fish? Is that what they're called?"

Carol appeared at last and scooped Katherine up into her lap, so now all four of them were crowded around the computer together. "It's not a nemo fish, is it love? What are they called?"

She shoved her fingers in her mouth and scowled when Carol removed them. "Clownfish?"

"That's it." She kissed the top of Katherine's head and beamed at the camera. "Hi love. How's the coffee?"

"Having an effect." Mycroft assured her. "I was just hearing about the zoo." He'd heard about it the night before from Carol and Greg, but he could bear to hear about it again. "Did you go to the aquarium?"

They told him everything in minute detail, and he listened, enraptured, to every word. The distance had never cut quite so deeply, but he wouldn't have missed this for the world. Bethany was deep in an explanation of the migration habits of the Masaai Mara, which Greg's expression suggested he had heard a lot about recently, when there was a knock at Mycroft's hotel room door. He looked around in wary confusion and was aware of Carol hushing Bethany behind him. "I do apologise, my dear," he said. "But I had probably better get that."

"We're not going anywhere." Greg brushed his fingers through Bethany's hair and looked down at her adoringly. "We can wait, can't we?"

They all assured him that they could, which struck him as a little suspicious, and he turned the laptop around so that they could see the view out over the city and, more importantly, couldn't be seen from the door. When he opened the door, he came face to face with one of the bellboys and his room service trolley. "Your order, sir."

Mycroft looked at the tray and refrained from glancing back over his shoulder at the laptop. "I see, thank you." He accepted the covered salver and managed to dig a tip out of his pocket and set it down on the table where they could see it before he turned the laptop back around. Carol's poker face said it all, and Greg wasn't even trying. Mycroft chuckled softly as he resumed his seat. "Ordering me breakfast, my love?"

"Well, we couldn't let you miss out." Carol leaned forwards and reached out of shot. When she leaned back, she pulled an enormous chocolate cake across in front of the camera. "Greg, love, have you got your lighter?"

Mycroft watched in silence, unable to speak around the lump in his throat, whilst they fussed over getting the candles lit, and Greg insisted that he really had pretty much given up smoking like he always did, then pointed out that it was a good job that he hadn't. It was a deeply familiar back and forth, and when Bethany rolled her eyes at Mycroft, he couldn't help but laugh. The sidelong glance he got from Carol said that she knew exactly what he was laughing at. He did his best to behave himself, sang Happy Birthday with them, and applauded when Katherine managed to blow her candles out on the third attempt. She had, apparently, insisted on having the entire pack instead of just three, but there was also a bright pink number three in the middle of the cake. After the cake came presents - nothing particularly big, as her main present was the trip to Legoland and the probably extraordinary amount of Duplo she would come back with. Mycroft had bought her a very handsome doll's pram very like her own had been, which she was still a little small to use yet. She was growing fast, though. Too fast.

He reached out to take a screenshot of the group of them, Bethany and Katherine sat on Greg and Carol's laps and grinning at the camera. At him. He gathered his scattered focus and forced himself to smile through the longing.

They talked for well over an hour, until Katherine got what Greg fondly referred to as ants in her pants and ran off to play with her new Duplo train set, and they needed a larger distraction than a computer screen could provide. Mycroft found it hard to settle to work after that, but he managed a few hours of what he could just about justify as research, combing through the international papers to analyse the coverage and reading through the latest selection of polling results whilst his internal clock counted down the hours to 7pm in London. Then he was back on Skype, meetings always carefully arranged to avoid it. The girls weren't allowed a screen on so close to bed, but either Carol or Greg would take the laptop into their bedroom, and Mycroft told them bedtime stories that he made up as they went. That had been a demand from Bethany, before Katherine was even walking, and at first it had seemed an impossible challenge. She was a very patient teacher, though, and the more stories he told, the easier they came.

Katherine got to choose the story, as it was her birthday. She would be tucked up in bed, hugging her stuffed unicorn, and watching Bethany in the other bed, trying to pick out a story her adored big sister would approve of. "Tell us a story about... about mermaidicorns."

"Mermaidicorns?" He shared a confused look with Carol, who had the computer on her lap. "Do you mean mermaids with horns?"

"No," Katherine scoffed, earning herself a gentle admonishment from Carol. "They're mermaids but they have horse legs instead of fish, and they live in caves and they can fly."

Mycroft mouthed "Fantasia?" at Carol, and she nodded tiredly. He'd get the details later. For now, there were more important things to be worrying about. "Ah, of course. Well then, let me tell you about the Mermaidicorn Queen, and her sister the Princess, and their castle on a deserted island..."

By the time the story wound down, Mycroft could tell that at least one of the girls, probably Katherine, was already sound asleep. Bethany would fill her in on what she missed in the morning. He fetched himself a cup of tea whilst Carol tucked them into bed and kissed them goodnight from both of them, and when he returned to his laptop, he found her curled against Greg on the sofa, bare feet tucked up under her, with a glass of wine in one hand and her other smothering a jaw-cracking yawn. "Uh, it's starting to feel like my bedtime," she grumbled. "Hello darling."

"You have had an eventful day, I take it?"

"We took them swimming. Katy is turning into a right little water baby; I can't keep up." Greg rubbed his hand up and down Carol's thigh comfortably. "And then they had Happy Meals, so that kept them quite for a good, what, five minutes?"

Carol huffed out a laugh. "At most. They want to go back next week so they can complete the set."

"You mean you want to go back so you can get the McFly one." Greg rolled his eyes and wrapped his arm around her. "They've got these stupid music player things, one track on each."

"Better or worse than Barbie Girl?"

Greg groaned, but he laughed as well. "Anything is better than Barbie Girl." He sighed, running a hand down Carol's side absently, and fixed Mycroft with a weary smile. "How are you doing, love? Americans driven you mad yet?"

"Several times over. The list of things I cannot comprehend is not a short one, and it grows longer by the day. Although today I haven't left the hotel room." He spotted Greg's warning glare before it formed and sighed. "Yes, I will. I'll go out for a walk this evening, once it's cooled a little and the streets are quieter."

He hummed in quiet acquiescence. "Make sure you're looking after yourself as well as democracy and Britain's interests. Speaking of, have you seen Sherlock lately?"

"Heard from him a few days ago. He's down Utah for some reason, needed my assistance with..." Mycroft trailed off and coughed delicately. "Least said, soonest mended, shall we say? I believe he's heading for Florida next, although he wouldn't tell me why. He's acquired himself quite the reputation as a private detective."

"Well, he's always been good at that sort of thing," Greg pointed out. "We wouldn't have cracked that sauna case without him. Don't tell him I said that, though."

"Your secret is safe with me, as is the reputation of the Metropolitan Police Force." Mycroft sighed and stopped himself rubbing at the base of his ring finger again. "Can this blasted election hurry up? How long can democracy take?"

"I'm sorry, love," Carol said softly. "There's really no chance of you getting home early?"

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not. The situation is not difficult, but it is delicate. I would not want to entrust it to anyone else at the moment, nor would I wish to handle it from London if challenges arose. I may be able to call in next month," he said as the thought occurred to him. "There is a summit in Paris that I may be required to attend."

"Wherever you can get to, we'll join you, you know that." Carol raised her eyebrows. "We might even get five minutes alone with you, if the girls can contain their excitement."

Mycroft swallowed back his anxieties once more. Six months was a long time to be away from home, especially with Katherine so young. For all that they weren't used to having him around all the time like Greg and Carol were, he was still a fixture in their lives. He was still their father. Now he was an ocean away, and a face they saw on a computer screen like Greg's parents and Carol's brothers, their family scattered around the world. "And if I can contain mine," he pointed out, attempting to sound prim instead of just deeply, achingly lonely. "I will have a great many stories to tell them, I'm sure."

"I'm sure you will. Mermaidicorns and all sorts."

Greg frowned. "Mermaidicorns?"

"Flying centaurs," Carol explained. "Katy's idea. Mycroft coped admirably, as always."  
"Well I'm sorry I missed it." He rubbed at his jaw, and even over the computer audio the rasp of stubble was audible. "The time will fly by though, Mike. The closer you get to the election the busier you're going to be, and then you'll be home."

He was determined that that would prove to be correct. "I'll need to set the ball rolling on the transition, but I am confident that whatever the outcome, the process from that point will be a smooth one. We will have plans in place for all eventualities short of an asteroid strike."

"Why not an asteroid strike?"

"Too depressing, and highly unlikely that any plan would survive the first five minutes even if humanity did." He cursed silently and was grateful when Carol only laughed. "I do, of course, have the plans for a zombie apocalypse. And velociraptor attack. So unlikely as to be pointless, save as an entertaining thought experiment on the train to Edinburgh."

Carol rested her head on Greg's shoulder and grinned at Mycroft. "God, I love you, you ridiculous man."

"And I you," he told her sincerely. "I cannot get home soon enough."

"Feeling's mutual, love." Greg sighed. "Save some annual leave for a long weekend in bed while your parents look after the girls, alright?"

"Already in the diary," Mycroft assured him, voice low. "Since before I left."

Greg smiled back, and Mycroft once again wished away the months between them.

# # #

Sherlock was still staring at him. He'd been doing it since they crossed over the West coast of Ireland and the general movement of people to collect bags and belongings from around the cabin began and showed no signs of doing the same or in any way letting up his contemplation, despite Mycroft's best efforts to ignore him until he went away. The Irish Sea had since fallen away below them and now only the short, damp stretch of the south of England remained between them and home. If Sherlock remained quiet until they landed, Mycroft would take the staring as a small price to pay.

Alas, it was not to be. The seatbelt light came on above them and Sherlock rolled his eyes at it but complied. "And thus, our American adventure is almost at a close," he observed. "You must be very relieved that everything went smoothly, democracy has taken place and the world will turn on. As it would have without your assistance."

"I'm sure we are all relieved, brother mine." He smiled back thinly. "It is a glorious day for America, and the sun dawns on a new age one hopes. I look forwards with interest to seeing how the path of history proceeds from this point. And, of course, I look forwards to working with President Obama. He's less irritating than many of his colleagues."

"And you must be looking forwards to getting back to London. It's remarkable that the place has kept standing without your steadying influence." Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked away dismissively. "One might almost contemplate the idea of you actually taking a holiday for once."

He smiled back. "We will soon see. I have a whole week off, starting tomorrow and going through to next Wednesday. Somehow, I am sure, London will look after itself. It has been a very long six months."

"You're taking an actual holiday?"

"I have missed my family dreadfully, if that's the point you were eventually planning to circle round to. And I have a birthday party to attend tomorrow, as you know. You're sure you won't come?" Mycroft's smile faded, but only externally. Internally he felt he was glowing with happiness. "I'm sure there will be jelly to spare, and Gregory always cooks far more than is required. You would be welcome."

Sherlock had grown uncomfortable as soon as Mycroft broached the subject openly, which wasn't his only reason for doing it but was a satisfying outcome, nevertheless. He scoffed at the idea and rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. "Thank you, no. I'll leave the domestic bliss to you, for as long as it lasts at least."

The barb hit home, and Mycroft busied himself with tidying away his book into his bag and checking the seats for anything else he'd forgotten, despite knowing full well there was nothing. He ignored Sherlock's amused gaze on him and was grateful for the swift, almost comfortable descent into Heathrow, and their swift disembarkation. Soon, but not soon enough, he had Sherlock and his luggage bundled into a taxi, and then back out at a hotel a few minutes’ drive from the airport. The persistent drizzle that seemed to linger over London for most of the period from mid-September through to mid-April - if they were lucky - greeted them as ever, and Mycroft crossed the short distance from the edge of the pavement to the cover of the portico as quickly as he could. Inside, the foyer was bright and airy, and already decorated with glittering silver and blue Christmas decorations and two towering trees. He made for the restaurant at the back of the hotel, which boasted a runway view, and knew he'd reached his destination when he was greeted with two piercing screams and, moments later, his arms were filled with Bethany and Katherine. He crouched to greet them and braced himself against the impact, which was considerable with the speed they'd hurtled towards him, and hugged them back just as hard, closing his eyes tightly to keep back the tears of mingled joy and relief. "I'm home," he told them and himself. "Oh, I've missed you both."

"Missed you too, Papi." Bethany pressed a wet kiss to his cheek and tightened her hand in the back of his jacket. "We thought you wouldn't be back for weeks and weeks."

"I wanted to surprise you. But I'm back now and staying for quite some time." He leaned back to look at them both and catalogue the changes. Carol had told him about Bethany's disastrous attempt to cut Katherine's hair, and he'd heard about her sudden growth-spurt and the speed with which she'd gone through two shoe sizes. They were both taller, of course. Bethany's hair was longer even if Katherine's was now cut short, and more closely resembled Greg's than had been intended, and tumbled around her shoulders in bouncing ginger curls. "I can't wait to hear everything that's happened while I've been gone," he said, even though he'd spoken to them almost every day that he'd been gone.

Carol finally came to join them and ruffled the girls' hair before running her fingers through Mycroft's. "Hi darling. Welcome home."

"It's good to be back." He got to his feet a little unsteadily and let Carol pull him in for another tight hug. He couldn't even restrain himself from stealing a quick kiss, which turned out to be less quick than he'd intended, and when he finally pulled back, he thought that the slightly stunned look of adoration on her face, much as it took him by surprise and made his heart flip, was probably mirrored on his own. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." She planted a hand on Bethany's head and looked down at her. "We all did, didn't we? Go on, kiddo, back to your seats."

Sherlock was hanging back behind them, watching with a look of detached interest. He shrugged when Mycroft looked at him. "Well, you seem to be settled back in nicely."

"We're having afternoon tea for Bethy's birthday," Carol told him. "If you'd like to join us..."

Mycroft hoped he wouldn't accept. Thankfully he looked more than a little alarmed at the idea. "No, thank you. I have to see a woman about a flat, actually. Always the question when you move back to the city. I assume your apartment in Canary Wharf is occupied, Mycroft." He smiled far too cheerfully. "Anyway. Lovely to see you again, Carol, girls. Have a lovely birthday, Bethany."

With that he left them, and Mycroft was aware of Bethany watching him with wide eyes from where she'd wrapped her arms around his leg. "Tea, then?" he asked, running his fingers through her hair and down her cheek to make her smile. "I missed speaking to you last night, so I want to hear everything."

# # #

By the time they got home Greg was already there, well established in what was commonly acknowledged to be his domain entirely. The girls were banished from the kitchen for a while longer, and there wasn't a chance of Mycroft getting a moment alone with Greg because distracting them from sneaking in took every ounce of cunning he'd acquired during his spell in US politics, and some bribery besides. Then it was bath time, for which he and Greg were both recruited, and he was dragged from there into their bedroom to get them into their pyjamas - matching as always - and get Bethany's hair brushed and dried and done up in pigtails to keep it out of the way overnight, while Greg mopped up the flood they'd made in the bathroom. With the girls hurtling downstairs to find Carol, Mycroft finally found a moment to track down Greg alone, and realised that he'd had the same idea when they nearly collided on the landing.

"Hey you," Greg murmured, grabbing Mycroft by his belt and tugging him into their bedroom, where he shut the door behind them firmly. His lips were warm and soft and ever so welcome, and he sighed against Mycroft's lips as he wrapped his arms around his waist. "Missed you. Glad to be back?"

"You know I am." Mycroft distracted both of them from talking for a little longer, until a peal of bright laughter and a thump from downstairs warned them that they'd left Carol handling the miniature hurricanes alone for quite long enough. "To be continued later."

"I hope so. If we've any energy left once, they're finished with us." Greg rubbed at his face and laughed. "I don't know where they get it from."

"It's the sugar. I think Katherine had five in each cup of tea."

"Well, what I've got for them downstairs isn't going to help there." He pressed a finger to his lips conspiratorially and led the way back downstairs, where he put on his best 'Officer of Her Majesty's Metropolitan Police' voice, which never failed to make Bethany laugh, and hauled her over his shoulder in a fireman's lift as soon as they got within reach. Katherine, meanwhile, glued herself to Mycroft's leg like a limpet, and wouldn't be detached until he picked her up to rest on his hip.

"You're getting too big for this," he told her firmly, although he was pretty sure she knew it was a lie as well as he did. She had a fair amount of growing to do before he'd even consider stopping picking her up. "Now what was that thump? No one hurt, I hope?"

"Just the chair falling over. Someone," Carol told them, making clear with a pointed glance at Bethany, "tried to go under it to get to the kitchen."

"Did she now. What on earth do you think is in there that's so exciting?"

She shrugged as well as she could, still dangling over Greg's shoulder. "Dunno, but it must be good if we aren't allowed in to see it."

He couldn't fault her logic there but knew better than to say so. "It could be that the floor is wet," he pointed out. "Or something boring like that."

She wasn't having any of that suggestion and explained to him in minute detail that reminded him of Sherlock exactly why it was something interesting. Carol caught his eye and he just about held it together. She had no such success, but as Bethany was facing away from her, she was free to cover her mouth with her hand and double up laughing in an effort to keep quiet.

Eventually Bethany's explanation wound to a close, and Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "I see. You make some very good arguments there."

Greg set her back down, despite her protests, and planted a hand on the top of her head to stop her running off. "We could show you what it is, but I don't suppose you'll be hungry after that massive afternoon tea you had."

Bethany did not look impressed by that suggestion. "That was hours and hours ago. And besides, I'm always hungry!"

"Isn't that the truth?" He lifted his hand off her head anyway and let her loose. "Go on then, you'd better go and see."

The surprise hidden in the kitchen turned out to be a stack of pizza bases and a veritable army of bowls of chopped toppings, from the more usual things like peppers, tomatoes and chicken to Bethany's personal favourites of strawberries and raisins, which she insisted were absolutely not an attempt to cheat her way towards having a pizza entirely made of sweet things. The neat and orderly array turned quickly to chaos, even with Greg supervising the four of them sternly, and by the time the pizzas were done and ready to go on the table he still had the slightly pained look of a man who had been reminded rather abruptly of why he tended to keep the kitchen to himself. Carol herded the girls through to the lounge, where they took their seats on their beanbags with the usual barrage of noise and squabbling, and although Mycroft stayed behind with every intention of helping Greg tidy up a bit more somehow he ended up pressed against the kitchen counter with one hand shoved in the back pocket of Greg's jeans. Neither of them was complaining, even when Carol came to collect them and the rest of the pizzas.

As predicted, Bethany and Katherine were rather too full to eat much of their pizzas, and no one much wanted to help finish off Bethany's with her, so the leftovers were cleared away by halfway through the film - Finding Nemo, as usual - and the beanbags abandoned so that Bethany and Katherine could squirm their way between Mycroft, Greg and Carol. Mycroft ended up with his arms full of both Carol and Katherine, who was curled up against her and fighting a valiant battle to keep her eyes open as the excitement of the day finally caught up with her. As the final credits rolled, Carol ran her fingers through Katherine's short hair and shifted to lean her head against Mycroft's shoulder.

"I think it's time you two were in bed, don't you?" They protested, but blearily enough to be far from convincing, and she chuckled softly. "Come on. Big and exciting day tomorrow. You need your beauty sleep."

Bethany, who was at least able to keep her eyes open, snuggled down against Greg stubbornly. "One more film?"

"Not a chance, princess." Greg kissed the top of her head. "And definitely not Finding Nemo again."

"Bedtime story?"

Mycroft nodded. "Of course. As if I would miss it."

She smiled softly and burrowed her head into Greg's shoulder. "Okay."

They allowed themselves to be carried upstairs, too sleepy already to walk (or so they insisted) and reluctantly agreed to brush their teeth side by side in the bathroom, nudging each other out of the way to pull faces in the mirror, then scrambled with a surprising amount of energy into Bethany's bed as soon as Mycroft sat down on the edge of it. He tucked them in side by side and shifted back, and immediately they squirmed out again and tucked themselves against his sides again, one on each side with his arms around them. "You're going to get me in trouble," Mycroft warned them, even though he could see Greg lingering outside the door and grinning at them from his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. "So, what would you like tonight?"

Katherine shrugged, too tired to have any opinion other than where she wanted to be, but Bethany blinked up at him sleepily before burrowing back in against him. "We went to see the Egypt exhibition at the museum. It was really pretty, and they have pyramids and cats and... and..." She yawned, cutting herself off. "They thought the sun was pushed across the sky by a scab beetle."

"And you want a story about Egypt?"

"Mmhm. And a cat." She hummed. "Not a real cat, a story about a cat. But I would like a kitten."

"Would you indeed?" Mycroft slid back against the wall and took the girls with him. "Well, I do know one of the Egyptian creation stories. Once upon a time, everything was water, and in the water were the gods..."

Katherine was sound asleep long before the end of the story, but not before he'd deviated from the fragments of story he could remember and into something about a cat playing with the sun like it was a ball of twine. Under his other arm, Bethany was still awake, even if only barely, and she smiled against his chest when he came to a stop. "I like that one," she said quietly, voice thick with sleep. "Tell me another?"

"You need to sleep," he told her more firmly than he felt. "You do have a big day tomorrow."

She grumbled and wrapped her arms around him tighter. "No." As soon as she'd said it, though, she lost the fight against another jaw-cracking yawn and sighed. "Best birthday present ever."

"What is?"

"You're home."

Mycroft had to swallow hard, and he bent to kiss the top of her head. "I wasn't going to miss your birthday if I could help it. I was gone long enough as it was. Now come on, let me get Katherine into bed."

Her eyes opened with some effort and she looked up at him pleadingly. "You'll tell me another story tomorrow night?"

"Whatever story you want, my dear."

That seemed to be enough for her, as she let him tuck her back into bed again and had her eyes closed when he turned back from tucking Katherine back into her own bed. He stopped to kiss her forehead, turned their nightlight on and the top light off, and slipped out onto the landing to where Greg was either still there or back. He allowed himself to be drawn into an embrace, more than willingly, and looped his arms loosely around Greg's waist as they leaned against each other. "It's so good to be home," he breathed out against Greg's neck. "I missed you all so much."

"We missed you too. Bloody politics."

"I quite agree." He eased back to be able to see Greg properly. "Wine?"

"God yes."

It was ready and waiting for them downstairs, where Carol was curled up on the sofa and looked half asleep already. She perked up as soon as Greg and Mycroft arrived, though, and arranged herself against them comfortably with her feet resting on the coffee table and a glass of wine in the hand that wasn't tangled with Mycroft's. "What a day," she murmured.

"You say that every evening."

"They're all like that. They're little energy vampires." She turned to kiss Mycroft happily enough and sighed. "It's good to have you home, love."

He held her tighter. "I cannot tell you how good it is to be home."

Greg's eyes were warm and soft, in a way that promised a great deal and thrilled through Mycroft as a surge of warmth. They roved over Mycroft and Carol lazily as he sipped at his wine, and he stretched out comfortably along the sofa. "So I didn't ask," he commented. "How was your flight?"

"Apart from Sherlock, quite tolerable. Blessedly short."

"Speaking of, where is he? Carol said he was looking at a flat somewhere?" Greg looked away and reached for the wine bottle. "Is he not staying at your place?"

Mycroft's mouth went dry suddenly. He hadn't expected this conversation to come up quite so soon. "No. My apartment is rented out, and Sherlock has declined my offer to help him find somewhere. He made an acquaintance in America who has offered him what he tells me is a very reasonable rate on a flat."

"So if your place is otherwise occupied..." Carol shifted so she could see him properly, and he could see the excitement warring with nerves in her eyes. "Are you staying here? I mean, I know you're staying here for a while, but..."

"I cannot stay here," he said, cutting her off gently. "As a matter of security, it would be far too dangerous for all four of you if I were to draw any more attention to you than I already have. However, I have..." He trailed off and had to look away himself. He reached out to set his glass on a side table before he dropped it and tried to keep his voice steady, like he wasn't inexplicably scared of rejection. "If you were willing... There is, that is to say..."

He trailed off when Carol's hand rested on his arm, and he swallowed hard. "Mike, start from the beginning, love."

Mycroft nodded his agreement. "Yes, of course. I have been considering the matter for some time. The security requirements are complex, and discretion is... perhaps more necessary than I would like. However, I have found a house in Kensington. Well, two houses to be precise, the main house and what is referred to as the annexe, although in less refined and expensive times it might be referred to as a basement flat. And, if you were willing, although I would officially reside in the annexe, or possibly at the estate in Surrey, I could nevertheless..."

When Mycroft trailed off again, Greg finished the sentence for him. "You could actually live with us? Or we could live with you, I suppose. Is that what you're suggesting?"

"I... yes. I think that's a succinct summary of the situation. Of course, if you wished we could..."

Carol shut him up in his favourite way, and when she pulled back, they were both breathless and flushed. "Yes," she said, and it took him a moment to remember what it was in answer to. "I don't care where it is, whether it's some Baronial castle in the far north of Scotland or a one-bedroom apartment in Hammersmith..."

"I draw the line at Hammersmith," Greg interjected.

"Alright, apparently we draw the line at Hammersmith. Yes, we want to live with you, here or wherever."

He rested his hands on her hips and his forehead against hers. "I can't put the genie back in the bottle," he said. "But we can make the best of it we can."

"Good." Her eyes shone and she ducked her head to kiss him again. "Now come to bed. It's been a very long six months."

# # #

It was an elegant double-fronted Georgian house on a wide street lined with poplar trees and neat stuccoed walls. The weather was almost perfect for it, cold and clear with wispy clouds high in a bright blue sky, and the honey yellow bricks glowed in the sunshine. A lime green door underneath an Italianate portico concealed original tiled floors and fireplaces, bare wood floors upstairs, high windows and a vast kitchen with open shelves and polished granite work surfaces. Some of the furniture was original, including a chest of drawers that had seen generations of families and the huge kitchen table that wasn't coming out unless they took either it or a wall down. Over a century of stains and scratches marked the surface, and despite that it had been carefully preserved through every kitchen remodel and every family.

Mycroft had loved it as soon as the file crossed his desk from the agent who handled his portfolio. That had been back in June when he'd barely been gone a month and was still up to his eyes in the chaos that was the start of an American election. Perhaps that was why he'd put off dealing with it for so long. Or perhaps he'd simply been putting off the inevitable until it no longer felt inevitable. It should have been back on the market within weeks of his tenants giving notice, but there was always something to be done to an old house. A new heating system, rewiring the plug sockets - one could never have enough anymore, refreshing the garden. If you put your mind to it, you really could do nothing for months on end, until the time was right.

Now Greg and Carol flipped through the brochure that should have gone to the estate agent weeks ago, and Mycroft tried not to look like he was experiencing quite as many emotions as he was. Carol's bare feet flexed against his shins and her head tilted gently to rest against his shoulder. "So, you own this?" she asked. "Just how much of London do you actually own?"

He chuckled. "More than I expected, less than you might be thinking. Rudy invested wisely and, I have to admit, probably somewhat immorally. He acquired this house in the sixties and permitted undercover agents to establish it as a counter-culture squat. I believe three albums were recorded in the attic, none of them very good."

"That's... burying the lede, love, but I'm going to skim over it for now." She shuffled back to the first page and raised her eyebrows. "Do I get to redecorate?"

"Is there any way to stop you?" Greg asked. "Short of hiding your entire CD collection, I suppose."

Mycroft laughed. "That would just be an excuse for her to go shopping again. And don't you quite like the idea of finally letting her loose in a paint shop?"

"Well, a house with a front door that green and a family this chaotic behind it can't also have walls that magnolia. Stands to reason." She turned her head and pressed a kiss against his cheek. "You're sure you're up for this, love? It's going to be quite the change. No escape from us."

He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against him. "That's rather the point. Although I may claim the summer house for my own use from time to time. And, of course, I do need to install a very heavy-duty lock on one room as a study. If Bethany is anything like me and Sherlock, even that will only keep her out for a while."

Greg groaned. "Oh god, we're doomed, aren't we?"

"Perhaps." Mycroft reached out for his hand and tangled their fingers together. "But I got very, very lucky and met people who have grounded me every day since. She doesn't need to get lucky. She's had you from the start."

"And she has you. That's more than I think you realise." His other hand wrapped around Mycroft's and held onto it. "I think you need to hear this out loud; in words you can't misunderstand or misinterpret: We want to live with you. And sometimes every one of us will hate it, but that's what it's like living with small children. And... Mycroft, this is a six-bedroom house even if we don't count the basement and the bloody summer house." He laughed and leaned over to kiss Mycroft. "You're physically incapable of doing things by halves, aren't you?"

"Apart from the bit where I have spent the last ten years doing exactly that."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, apart from that." He flexed his fingers in Mycroft's. "You are loved. You're family. And we want you here. Whether that's here," he said, gesturing around the bedroom that was almost filled with a bed big enough for three adults and two squirming children, with their clothes still strewn over every convenient surface, "or Rudy's estate in Surrey or... or even back in that flat in Islington. It might have been a bit small, but as long as we were all there, I reckon we'd cope."

"You were right," Mycroft murmured. "I did need to hear that."

"He's usually right. You'll get used to it." She curled up against him again, resting her cheek against his shoulder and draping an arm over his waist. "And we do not have enough hours until Katy scrambles into bed, so we need to put pants on and go to sleep. You'll get used to that, too."

Mycroft kissed the top of her head. "I'm looking forwards to it."

# # #

Cocooned in the shelter of the grand four poster bed in the master bedroom of Mycroft’s estate, they were woken by thundering feet down the corridor, shrieks of delight, and then two thumps on either side of the bed, so early in the morning that no light broke through when the curtains were tugged aside.

"Mummy, Daddy, Papi, he's been! Santa's been!"

Mycroft was well aware of that, as the three of them had been up long through the night making sure of it. It seemed like they'd only been in bed five minutes, and when he was finally able to focus on the clock, he realised that it wasn't actually that much longer. He shifted a bony knee out of his ribs and tubbed Katherine down into the space between him and Carol, who groaned like the nee had been transferred to her ribs or worse. "Still too early, babies," she told them groggily. "Are you sure he's been?"

"We went and looked in the sitting room and there's a massive pile of presents, and he's brought more decorations, and he ate the mince pie, and the reindeer ate all the carrots and left glitter all over the carpet and..."

She kept talking, rattling along at a mile a minute like she did when she was excited. At five and three years old, they had all the energy in the world, and keeping up them was at utter joy but exhausting beyond belief. Especially on barely more than an hour's sleep. Mycroft let her voice wash over him, murmuring agreement and understanding whenever she paused for breath. Carol's eyes cracked open just enough to smile at him, and she draped an arm across Katherine to rest on Mycroft's hip, where her thumb snuck up under the edge of his pyjama top and rubbed against his skin gently. In a moment's pause for breath, she yawned and hugged them both. "Bethy baby, I think your dad's asleep again. Just... five more minutes?"

"But Santa's been," Katherine protested. "We need to go down."

"You can't open your presents until Nanna and Grandpa Holmes arrive anyway, and they're not here until..." She yawned again. "Until much later. What time even is it?"

Mycroft forced his eyes open. "Just past five. Not enough past five."

"Can we have pancakes?"

"Not yet. In a bit, love." Carol burrowed deep into the pillows and Mycroft could just make out her smile. "An hour more sleep, yeah?"

Katherine grabbed onto Mycroft's hand. "Do we have to go back to bed?"

"No. Stay where you are. Just go back to sleep for a bit."

Bethany loomed over Carol to look at Katherine and, after a moment's silent conversation between the two of them, settled back down out of Mycroft's view. "Okay," she murmured, muffled like it was pressed against something. "And then pancakes?"

"And then pancakes," Mycroft promised her. "Pancakes and mince pies, maybe?" She made a disgusted noise, and he smothered a laugh. "Alright, more for us then. Do you want fruit with your pancakes?"

Carol's knee nudged against his firmly. "Can we do the breakfast conversation later, love? Go back to sleep."

"Sorry, dear." He kissed the top of Katherine's head and hugged her and was delighted when she wriggled round and went straight back to sleep on his chest.

His parents arrived a little later than planned, by which point Bethany and Katherine were both sitting on the window seat in the living room, peering through the leaded glass at the mist and rain outside. Mycroft paused in the doorway to watch them, happily unobserved for a while, and cradled his first mug of mulled wine against his chest. The big old house was such a reminder of his own childhood, and all the happier for being filled with theirs. He didn't even move when he felt Greg's hand against his shoulder, and when it slid down to his waist he just leaned back against Greg's warm, broad chest and hummed contentment at the warmth of Greg's arms wrapping around his waist. "I love Christmas for the kids," Greg murmured in his ear. "They're giddy with it."

"They're a delight. And I find I am actually... almost pleased my parents are going to be staying overnight."

"Because we might get to sleep tonight?"

He chuckled. "At the very least. Although I suspect we'll still have them in with us in the morning." The idea was one of the happiest he'd ever had, and that was a high bar these days. After so long it shouldn't have come as surprise, but as the happiness washed through him, he was struck by it once more. "You realise that in one week it'll be ten days since we bumped into each other that night. Ten years since you changed my life forever."

Greg kissed the side of his neck. "Alright with that?"

"Alright? How could I be anything else?" He sighed. "I can't imagine what life would have been like if we hadn't found each other."

"We would have eventually. We were always planning to look you up... once we'd worked out how." He huffed. "Still not sure how we would have managed it, but we would have put more thought into it if you hadn't sort of fallen into our bed by then."

At that point there was a squeal of delight and the girls scrambled down from the window seat and hurtled across the room, wrapping themselves around Greg and Mycroft in one enthusiastic bundle. "They're here! Nanna and Grampa, they're here."

"Alright, loves. Go on, go and meet them." Greg planted his hands on their shoulders and pushed them towards the front door. "And don't get under their feet!"

Mycroft watched the girls go and turned to wrap his arms around Greg again. "It's amazing the effect that children have on grandparents, isn't it?"

"They're magic. I'm glad your parents came round." There was a knock on the door and Greg kissed him quickly. "We've got you though. Always have had."

"Yes, I know. And I don't know what I'd do without you." His mother's voice came from the hall at last and Mycroft disentangled himself with some reluctance. "And now unto the breach."

"To fill the... whatever with our English dead. Yeah, you'll get me cultured one day. Know lots of rivers, though." 

His mother’s voice echoed through from the front hall. "Carol, darling! You're looking radiant, dear. Merry Christmas. How have you been?"

"Hello Tilly, Sigur. Merry Christmas. Katy, get out from under their feet, baby."

Carol was helping Mycroft's mother with a predictably huge bag of presents, whilst Sigur followed her in with an equally enormous box of food and other treats that Mycroft felt he should also have expected. They caught each other's eyes and Mycroft's gaze dropped to his father's bow tie. For once in his life, he felt underdressed. "Merry Christmas. No Sherlock with you?"

"Joining us later, he assures me," Matilda told him, with just enough ice in her voice that he understood that there had been some form of conversation about it. "If he's not been able to wrap things up, your father will go in to pick him up."

"What is he up to? No, wait, pretend I didn't ask because I am sure I don't want to know." He looked down at where Katherine was tugging on his hand. "Katherine, are you trying to tell me that it's finally time we opened your presents?" She nodded furiously and he reached down to pick her up. "Well, that is us told. You've had breakfast, I hope? We had pancakes with chocolate spread and marshmallows, didn't we?"

Matilda raised an eyebrow. "Is that a traditional Christmas breakfast in the Lestrade-Holmes household?"

"Well, it is now." Mycroft kissed Katherine's cheek. "Come on. Santa has been, hasn't he? I'm sure he's got something very exciting for you."

Sherlock arrived late enough to avoid the mountain of wrapping paper and the main bursts of energy, but early enough for lunch. Apparently even he was susceptible to Mummy's firmer warnings or scared of them. Lunch was a civilised affair. Greg had spent most of the previous day in the kitchen with capable assistance from Bethany peeling potatoes and carrots and goodness only knows what else, and then all morning - when the girls allowed it - back in there working until the entire house smelled divine. He even allowed Tilly to join him in his domain. Mycroft was only a little concerned by the laughter that had been emanating from there, honestly. The fact that his mother and Carol were apparently getting on just as well in the living room with the girls and Sherlock was being suspiciously quiet only added to his pleased concern. It was easy enough to set his concern aside, though, in the comfortable warmth after lunch, full of excellent food and wine and the Christmas cheer. He settled back onto the settee, let Katherine scramble up into his lap, and leaned his head back against the cushions where his eyes fell closed again.

"Oh, you're turning into your father," Mummy told him with a cluck of her tongue. "Watch, the pair of them will both be asleep in fifteen minutes."

"So long?" Carol laughed. "It was a late one last night."

"Did you wait up for Santa, Mummy?"

There was a pause, whilst Carol worked through the wine to come up with answer for that delicate question. "Your dad was cooking, wasn't he love? And Papi helped him and I... supervised. And made tea."

This seemed to be an acceptable answer, because Bethany immediately reeled off into an explanation of her theory of how Santa managed to visit every house in the world on Christmas Eve. Mycroft opened one eye to look at his mother, who was paying assiduous attention, and let it slip closed again. He was content to listen and drift through the afternoon, as Greg sat next to him on the sofa and draped an arm around his shoulders, Katherine scrambled down to play with her sister, and his father started snoring gently in one of the armchairs. He never quite drifted off himself, so when Sherlock finally found his tongue again he was on edge, ready for the inevitable.

It came quickly. "It's nice to see this place decorated for Christmas," he said airily, as if Sherlock Holmes ever did small talk. "Good to see it full. It's really too big for even Mycroft to clatter around in on his own. I assume you're not staying long, though."

"Only another few days," Carol confirmed. She had Katherine in her lap now and looked down at her with a smile. "Greg got Christmas off but he's on call for New Year, so he needs to be closer. Getting back into London from here is bad enough not in the middle of the night on New Year's Eve. You find all sorts of strange people wandering the streets, don't you Mycroft?"

He laughed and rolled his eyes at her fondly. "I'm not sure which of us you're referring to..."

"Both."

"Well, I'm not arguing either way." He spotted Sherlock's confused look and smiled mildly. "Greg and I bumped into each other on New Year's Eve ten years ago. I was just leaving the office, believe it or not, and the fireworks had just finished."

Sherlock sighed. "That you were working at midnight is not the part of the story I find hard to believe, I assure you."

"My, how the time has flown," Tilly said, glaring at Sherlock. "I didn't realise how long it had been until you said that, Mikey. You're going back to your house then, Carol?"

"Ah... no." Mycroft stared at the backs of his fingers, at the plain gold band on his right hand. "They're moving in with me. To the house in Kensington."

Mummy beamed. "Ah, I did think it was a bit big for just you dear. We had a look at it on the estate agent's site, your father and I. You know there's a blue plaque next door? Some author, I think. It's a nice little square. Who looks after the garden? Is that done by the council or is it volunteers? Your father's talking about doing the garden over again. Wants to put some raspberry canes at the bottom by the summerhouse. You always liked the raspberry canes when you were a boy."

He waited for her to pause for breath and jumped on what he hoped was the most innocuous comment with least opportunity for her to start up again. "I believe it's managed by the council, but I haven't looked into it in detail."

"Can we have raspberries, Papi? We have a nice big garden at the new house, with a summer house. That's like a shed but posh," Bethany said gravely. "The people before used it as a gym, but Papi is going to work in there. And we have to tell people he lives in the annek... annexe?"

"Yes, you're supposed to tell people I live in the annexe," he confirmed with a warning glance. “It’s on the lower ground floor. Convenient for security if required, or if Sherlock gets himself thrown out of another flat, isn’t it?”

She nodded. "But we're allowed to tell you, because you're going to know anyway." She tossed her hair over her shoulder just like Carol so often did. "And we couldn't move in yet because we were decorating. Our bedroom was really boring but now it's really pretty. And Papi has an office, and Mummy has a study with loads and loads of books, and so many maps." Bethany gave a happy sigh and rested her chin in her hands. "We've been collecting them."

"Every antiquarian bookshop in London. Exactly how many maps of the Island of California does one family need?" Mycroft asked her, smiling when she laughed up at him. "You're going to get real and not real all confused."

"The maps with dragons are just better than the ones without."

That was an inarguable fact, so he didn’t bother. Sherlock's surprise, that he was trying so hard to hide, was too distracting. "After ten years, I suppose it was about time we settled down, don’t you think?"

His mother gave him one of her looks, the ones he both dreaded and, if he was quite honest with himself, longed for. The ones that saw right through him as she so rarely did. Eventually she gave him a nod and a smile and settled back in her chair. "Yes dear, I rather think it was."


End file.
